#or something like that- and I have already been interested in football so I assume- still assume that it's the same

[clayd]

as an Avs fan, good luck 🙃

Literally me seeing this:

I'm going to take it the good way,

because I can't really say I saw the match but I saw the first 2 row(? i don't know but i saw the first two secments of twenty minutes and then I had to fall asleep tp not bother anyone with the lights on, but they were really good in what I saw, like fully more i don't know the name but like trows at the portery, and they were like activeded more when the other team score the first goal, and the goalie take off his helmet right after the other ones score him a goal, which I learnt in that moment that was allow to do. It wasn't boring, and I enjoyed the game so I think I'm going to watch the one of today, so I'm going to support them even if the lost, which I don't want them to do. :D

It's really fun to write my throughts on anything, I hope it's not annoying to the anon (I just realised that I don't know if they get like an inbox or something saying that they got responded) that I wrote so much in response of a simple commentary, but it was fun!!! and it cheer me up to write so it's all good on my side.

I'm also sorry but just a little because it's still fun, about the amount of long tags, I just kept writing my thougrhts as I thourght them, just the first two and the last two are short and one in the middle.

[captainreecejames]

Pick Me Up?

Charles Leclerc imagine

summary : the four times Charles picks you up and the one time you pick him up.

pairing : Charles leclerc x fem!reader

I believe there is no mention of YN, but I'm not 100% sure.

word count : 3.5 k

warnings : none that I can think of

note : I only read over this once so if there's spelling errors or other mistakes that's what happened. Next up should either be Logan Sargeant my ex is a footballer or the social media accompanying fic. Anyways, enjoy and me if you like it!!

1. Charles picks you up from a bad date

The date had started fine.

Actually more than fine. He showed up on time, was pleasant to the waitress, and had good manners. Really, he would have even gotten a second date, if he hadn’t brought up Formula 1.

It’s a topic you tend to avoid when meeting new people, as they either tend to know a lot already and want to use you to get to Charles or they don’t know anything and assume that you are using Charles, when they know nothing about your relationship. It was a hassle you learned to shut down before it even began.

But back at the date with Vince, he had brought it up and that’s when things started to go down hill. 

Despite your best efforts, when people brought up Formula 1, you grew taller and more focused on the conversation, it’s like a switch flipped. While Charles driving for the best known team certainly helped your interest, everything about the sport was fascinating for you and you couldn’t help but geek out when the topic came up. 

Vince noticed your reaction and his casual demeanor turned critical. “You only know about it because you think the drivers are hot.” That had made your smile drop instantly, brows furrowing as you tried to respond. “Probably can’t even name all the teams.” He thinks that stumps you, but you’ve dealt with enough shitty men in this sport, you’re not taking anything more from this wanna-be investor.

“I don’t have to prove my knowledge of F1 to you,” you state, deciding that this dinner is now over.

“Oh, now I know you can’t even name five drivers.” Your frown deepens, picking up your napkin and placing it on the table next to your plate. It had gone down hill so fast, how disappointing.

“Your attempt at insulting me into submission is falling flat.” His eyes are wide at your comment, and he must not have expected you realize his move. You flag the waitress over and she walks quickly back to your table, noticing how you’re not smiling anymore. Seems like this date is a bust, so another twenty note must be added to the jar of bets amongst the staff of this restaurant.

(You and Charles visit the place often as it was the sight of your first job, but also the food and people were lovely, and bringing a first date here was the safest option.)

(So they all knew you and were betting on when the dam breaks and you two admit your feelings for each other.)

You hand Lucille enough money to cover both yours and Vince’s meals, not bothering with the change. Your goal now is to get as far away from Vince as soon as possible. He  opens his mouth to say something again, but you are already out of your seat and walking towards the front door, phone calling Charles to pick you up.

He answers on the first ring, always on alert when you go on dates.

(Not because he’s jealous or anything, but because he’s worried about you and needs to make sure that you stay safe. He’s been tempted to bribe the staff of your little restaurant for information during dates after a particularly bad one, but his mom talked him out of it.)

“Ma cherie, is everything alright?” You roll your eyes at his question, just knowing that there’s a smirk on his face right now. He didn’t have a great feeling about Vince, but he wouldn’t say I told you so.

“Can you pick me up please?” You barely need to finish your question before he answers with an ‘of course, I’m already on my way.’

“Need me to stay on the phone?” You glance back at the restaurant, looking in the window to find Vince scrolling away on his phone, oblivious to the movement around him.

“No, focus on the streets. I’ll be fine.” Charles hums his answer and hangs up, leaving you to look busy on the streets of Monte Carlo.

He pulls up not even two minutes later, stopping the car haphazardly in a tow-away zone. You rush to the side, opening the door and shimmying in as fast as you can because even though this is Charles Leclerc’s very recognizable Pista, you don’t want to risk any tickets. While he pulls away you realize how fast he showed up and a question forms on your lips, but he speaks before you have the chance to ask.

“I was only down the road at the marina.” He seems sheepish, like the answer is rehearsed, but you don’t push it because you’re still grateful that he showed up. What would you do without him to pick up after a bad date?

2. Charles picks you cause your car breaks down

This time when you call him should feel less embarrassing than other times, but really it only feels worse. How are you going to admit to him that the car you’ve been saving up for and desperately wanting since you were 7 just crapped out on you before you could even get out of the parking garage? Especially when he advised you against such car. It would be humiliating. 

Alas, you made the call, practicing in your mind what you would say to him. 

Again, he picks up on the first ring, though this time you’re not sure as to why he answered so fast.

“Is everything alright, ma cherie?” You blush, grateful he can’t see your face.

“I’m stuck,” you exhale, ready to face what ever he has in store for you.

“Stuck?”

“My car won’t start and I’m still at work, everyone else has left and I’m in need of a ride.”

“Okay,” he answers, relief filling you. “I’m leaving the gym with Andrea, I should be there in 15 minutes. Don’t talk to any strangers.”

“Love you too, Charles.” You roll your eyes, hanging up on him and sitting in the drivers seat of your beloved, but broken, car. That’s some good money about to go down the drain for the tow and mechanic fees. As you debate calling your dad to help you out with diagnosing what’s wrong with the car, a familiar rumble enters the garage, and you see the ever famous Pista pulling up next to you, a smirking Charles in the driver’s seat.

“Someone call for a pick up?” You want to roll your eyes at him, but the smile on his face makes the irritation melt away. After a long day at work, made even longer because your stupid car that you really wanted wouldn’t start, all you feel is relief and affection for the man in front of you, and it’s a little too overwhelming.

Tears pool in your eyes and Charles frowns, cutting the engine and climbing out so he can hug you. He only admits it to his mother, but holding you is just as good a driving when he’s driving on the track with a car that responds to his every command.

(And what he won’t admit to anyone is that if holding you feels like that, then kissing you must feel like he’s just won a world championship.)

“Ma cherie,” he whispers, pulling your body into his own and stroking your hair to soothe you. He doesn’t ask any questions, which you’re grateful for, you don’t actually know what’s wrong other than everything is just too much and him showing up makes you feel safe enough to let it all out.

When you’ve finally slowed your breathing and made yourself relax he pulls away, looking at you with so much love in his eyes that you’re not sure if you’re dreaming. “Now you know what it felt like to drive under Binnotto.”

The comment is a shock and it makes you snort, which is what Charles was going for. Your laugh that he thinks could make him smile even in the darkest moods. “You can’t say that Mr. Ferrari.” You smack his chest while shaking your head, but the rueful smile on your face tells him that you still haven’t gotten over the team principle screwing him over.

Then the smile eases into something much more natural, and he knows the tense moment has passed. “Takeout?” he suggests, ushering you to the passenger side of his car. You nod at him and he’s pretty sure that he would do anything to make you smile.

3. Charles picks you up for a spontaneous lunch date

The next day it’s he who calls you, but you still an answer on the first ring.

(You’ve dedicated a Måneskin song as his ringtone so you always know when he’s calling)

(He made your ringtone a Mika song after you dragged him to a concert)

“Charles,” you answer, confusion in your tone.

“Ma cherie!” he sounds excited and you can’t help but want to follow him anywhere he goes when he sounds like that.

“Is everything alright?” You ask it this time, because shouldn’t he be packing for a race now?

“I’m outside, we’re going to spend the day on the water.” After leaving your home last night, Charles decided that you needed a pick me up, and what better way but to spend a few hours lounging around on his yacht, soaking up the sun and enjoying each other’s company.

(No one else would be there, but this wasn’t a date.)

(Seriously Arthur, it wasn’t a date.)

You spare a glance around your room, laundry begging to be done and dishes waiting to be washed. Yeah, you could use a day away from chores.

“Let me grab a bag,” you tell him, already throwing more clothes around the room in search of your favorite bathing suit. He hums through the speaker and you put your phone down to keep searching for the bathing suit. It was your favorite red crossover one piece and you be damned if you didn’t wear it today, anything to manifest a Ferrari win.

When you finally manage to find it, in the pile of clean but not put away laundry, you pick your phone back up and tell Charles you’ll be right down.

In two minutes you’re out the door of apartment, eyes landing on Charles leaning against his car. He looks so handsome with the windswept hair and Ray-bans on, you really have to wonder why he’s spending the afternoon with you and not some model he met in a garage.

(He’d say it’s because it’s the weekend before a race and this is a tradition, spending the afternoon with you before he leaves is the only way to ward off bad luck.)

(Seriously, before the Netherlands race last year you'd been unable to make it because of a bad cold and he had to retire the car that race, so safe to say you were forced to the boat, or his apartment, or he came over before the plane every time after that.)

Maybe the question is what would he do without you?

4. Charles picks you up from a girl’s night

This time Charles doesn’t pick up on the first ring, in fact, he barely makes it to the phone in time to answer. That’s because it’s not you who is calling, but rather a friend.

You and few girl friends had decided on a girls night out for one of them going through a bad break up, but after a few pregame shots and then drinks at this club, you were pretty intoxicated.

Looking for your group after coming back from the bathroom and the bar, you had spotted Lando and Max across the room, which made you think about Charles.

(Not that he ever really left your mind.)

And when you think about Charles, you wonder where he is, so you went to your friends. Both their faces lit up when they saw you, indicating that they were also not sober. After a quick hug for both of them you turn to survey the rest of the bar, looking for your Monagasque. 

“He’s not here!” shouts Max, trying to be heard over the noise. Your shoulders drop, turning back to the two racers with a pout on your lips.

“Where is he?” you ask, trying to seem nonchalant, but drunk you can’t hide her feelings as easily as sober you.

(Many would argue that sober you can’t hide her feelings easily either, but all that matters is that Charles doesn’t find out. And since he’s too occupied in hiding his also obvious feelings, you’re both oblivious to the other’s pining.)

Lando says that Charles stayed at home, something about playing the piano and having an early night was more tempting than drinks. The real reason being that if Charles went out he would not have been able to stop thinking about you and your potential suitors, which would lead to him drinking to forget. He was not up for another heartbreak hangover.

Your eyes light up at the mention of Charles playing the piano, sitting down in the booth with them. “Oh! I bet it’s going to sound wonderful!” Both drivers roll their eyes, and to their disappointment, you’re not drunk enough to miss it. “You don’t like his music?” The accusation in your tone makes them readjust their face. It’s not that they don’t like his compositions, it’s just that when Charles explains them, it’s almost always about how you looked on a certain day and he just was so inspired he had to put something down. They’re really tired of the back and forth between you too.

You begin your speech on how talented Charles is at the piano, which then morphs into how talented he is as a driver, and then as a person. It all turns into a ramble about how proud you are of him, something they’ve all heard before.

When you’ve somehow made it to Leo and how Charles chose the perfect puppy, the man himself shows up.

“Ma cherie,” he interjects, placing a hand on your shoulder to get your attention. You turn towards him, and Max swears that there should be cartoon hearts in your eyes.

“Charles!” you yell, wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug. “What are you doing here?” You’re slightly too loud for being in his arms, but he doesn’t care if you yell his ear off, it’s still you.

“Max said you were ready to come home.” Your brows furrow at that, because you don’t remember ever saying that, or even Max disappearing to call Charles, but you can’t be mad at him showing up.

“One more drink?” you ask, eyes pleading with him. Charles shakes his head, he can feel how much he’s supporting your weight even while sitting and knows that any more alcohol will likely end with you tripping over yourself.

“Water,” he answers and you’ve agreed to the words coming out of his mouth because it’s Charles, and he’ll never steer you wrong.

Charles heads to the bar to grab a water, running into your group of friends there. He tells them your status and that’ll he’ll be taking you home after this drink. They all nod along, most of them predicting that the night would end like this: Charles showing up and driving you home.

When it’s finally time to leave and Charles has ushered you out of the packed club into his Pista, you remember that you came here with a completely different group. “The girls!”

“Don’t worry, ma cherie, I saw them before we left and told them I’d take you home.” The gentle smile on his face is enough to put one on yours. Where would you be without him, indeed.

+ 1. You pick Charles up from the airport

You’ve got a new car now, thanks to Charles, and since he needs to be picked up from the airport, you’ve decided to take it for a nice spin. The roads are relatively clear for the drive, and you’re there in the usual 30 minutes. That makes you early for Charles, but you take the time to work out what you’re going to say to him.

Before you get out of the car you text him your location, so that he can head right out and find you, rather than you going into the terminal to look for him. He always was better at finding you.

The last night out had not only ended with Charles taking you home, but with a revelation. You couldn’t keep living like this. Loving him so much and not telling him was suffocating. It made you feel like you were on the edge of a cliff with nothing to keep you safe, and you were tired of it. So the question was, how did you tell him.

“Charles, I’ve been in love with you for ages,” you said, but shook your head. That didn’t sound right.

“Charles, I have to tell you something really important. I think I’m in love with you.” No, you shook your head again and groaned. “I don’t think I’m in love with him, I know I am.”

“Charles, you’re the most important person in my life, I don’t know what I’d do with out you.” Okay, solid start, you might have something with that.

“Charles light of my life.” No. “That’s too cheesy.”

“God, I wish I could put into words how much you mean to me. I love you so much I don’t know what to do with myself most of the time. It’s like I need to feel you to be able to breathe properly. All I really ever need is for you to look and smile at me and I’ll know that everything will be alright. I can get through anything with you there. If you love someone else it would break my heart, but knowing that you’re happy is all I need to be okay. I’d live with the thought of you loving someone else, because if they made you as happy and good as I feel, then there’s nothing more I could ask for.” Yeah, that sounded-

“Well it’s a good thing I love you too.”

You screamed, turning around to see Charles behind you in all his glory. Black sweatshirt and baggy jeans, hair messy like he ran his hand through it multiple times.

“How long have you been there?” you asked, face turning red enough to rival Ferrari.

“At Charles, light of my life.” He shrugged, like you hadn’t just bared your soul out to him. “Though, I disagree, it’s not too cheesy.” Could you get any redder? Feels like this is as red as a human being could get before self-combusting.

He’s just standing there, with a dopey smile on his face that you want to kiss, but you can’t. Something is holding you to the spot. You force yourself to say something. “Can you say something else?”

“Like what?”

“Anything else, I feel like I’m going to explode if you don’t say something.”

“Thanks for coming to pick me up.” He adds a shrug to the end and you narrow your eyes.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Oh, you want me to say that I love you too.”

“I don’t want you to say it if you don’t mean it.” If you were a kid you’d add a stomp to the end, as if you were throwing a temper tantrum. He furrows his brow like he’s confused and still you want to kiss him senseless.

“Well, I mean it.”

Now you’re the one confused. “What?”

“I love you too, and I don’t think I’d be okay if you loved someone else as much as I love you. Because I’m selfish and a terrible man and I want you all to myself.” He shakes his head. “I need you all to myself,” he corrects. “You’re the love of my life and if I wasn’t yours then I don’t think I could go on. But you said you do love me, so everything is so much easier now.” Each sentence is punctuated with a step closer, until he’s just a few inches from you, like he needs you to take the last step. You do, without hesitation, because you really would do anything for him.

Eyes glancing at his lips and back, you catch him doing the same thing. “I love you more than anything in this world. I’d give up racing if you asked, I do anything for you.”

Another glance at his lips. “I’d never ask that of you, Charles. But, I love you too, and I’d do anything for you.” His smile at those words would normally catch you off guard, like you’d stop breathing at it, but somehow it just makes everything easier right now. So you kiss him.

Leaning forward those last few inches to grab his shoulders and pull him down so you can kiss him with as much love as you can muster. If words can’t explain how much you love him then maybe kissing him will convey it. That you love him more than words, actions and thoughts can combine. You love him.

(And he loves you.)

[toournextadventure]

a cold reunion

Summary: Astrid hasn't visited her mother's old house in a while. She wonders if someone new has moved in by now. Maybe it'll be a "ghost," like her mother claims used to live there. Ha. She would be so lucky.

Word Count: 3.3k Warnings: mentions of death, Tim Burton style tones Pairing: Astrid Deetz x Reader A/N: I know absolutely nothing about this movie, only the original, so I'm just gonna have some fun with it

Being a Deetz was one of the most irritating parts of life. At least, it was in Astrid’s opinion. Even without her own uncommon interests, she was held to the standards of her mother. Because her mother was weird, everyone assumed she was too. Which she was, but it wasn’t fair she couldn’t make that statement for herself.

She used to have a friend. You had been new to town and hadn’t known anything about her mother. It led to a wonderful friendship. Her favourite classes were the ones you had together, and eventually, she invited you over outside of school. Everyone thought you were crazy to agree, but you never faltered.

Even her mother and grandmother liked you, saying you were a “good kid.” Astrid knew better, you were trouble. Always in detention or being scolded by teachers in the hallways. You were anything but a good kid when it came to following the rules. But she wouldn’t deny, you definitely sweet talked your way into her mother’s and grandmother’s good graces.

You had done the same to her, pulling her in until she didn’t want to leave. The first kiss had been under the bleachers at a football game; disgustingly cliche. You had tasted of the cigarettes you stole from your mom. A disgusting taste, but it was good on you.

But as soon as she really started to like you - a little more than like, she would admit - you disappeared. You hadn’t been at school that morning, and when she went to your mom’s work, she had said she didn’t know where you were. Said it was no surprise you left; you could do better than this town.

That had been two years ago. Your mom had left town not long after your disappearance. Everyone assumed she had done something to you; a suspicion that came from the simple fact that your mom was, as the town called it, “trailer trash.” She was a nice person, Astrid had always liked her. She didn’t blame the woman for leaving.

Even Astrid had left for college once school was over. What else was she going to do, stay put? No, she wanted to get started somewhere else. Somewhere she wouldn’t be saddled with the name Deetz like it was some kind of curse. She loved her mother more than she would ever care to admit. But she wanted to do something for herself.

It was winter break before she came back home.

“Leaving already?” Her mother called from the porch when she grabbed her bike and started walking it to the street. “You haven’t even been here for three hours.”

“I’m going to check on the house,” Astrid said with a shrug. “I heard the owners moved out.”

“They did, thank god,” her grandmother said. “They did that house no justice.”

Bold coming from you, Astrid thought but kept her mouth shut.

“Don’t stay out too late,” her mother said.

“Lydia dear, when you were her age, you were almost marrying a ghost,” her grandmother said. “Consider it karma.”

“Mom,” her mother sighed.

Astrid had already hopped on her bike and started down the street. The path to the old house was well-worn; everyone knew it. The old owners had tried their best to convince everyone the house wasn’t haunted, but most of the town didn’t believe it. At least none of the school kids. They had jumped at the opportunity to have a haunted house in town whether it was real or not.

You had always liked that old house. No one had ever fully convinced you that ghosts had lived there, but you liked the thrill of it. I don’t think they’re real, but what if? You had asked one night after sneaking in through her window. We should check it out one day. After you disappeared, she had avoided the house like the plague.

But Astrid knew the path by heart. Snow had been plowed from the streets, and the dutiful citizens had shoveled the bridge. When she approached said bridge, she slowed until she could get off the bike, walking it across instead of riding. Her mother had made it clear that under no circumstances was she to ride or drive over the bridge. It was a silly rule; she followed it anyway.

The house was more run down than usual. It shouldn’t have upset her as much as it did. After all, it wasn’t like she had really ever lived in the house anyway. But it was still part of everything she had known growing up. To see it practically falling apart was… well, it was nothing short of devastating.

Without taking her eyes off of the house, she propped her bike up by its kickstand and slowly made her way to the front door. Step by step, each stair creaked under her weight. The house was a little creepy. Maybe it would be best if she just didn’t go in. After all, the door was practically falling off the hinge, if she actually knocked it would-

-the door swung inwards.

And you were standing there in the doorway with your eyes wide. You looked like you had seen a ghost.

“What are you doing here?” Astrid asked quietly.

You exhaled harshly, shoulders sagging with the movement.

“Want some tea?”

—---

Astrid looked as beautiful as the day you had left. Well, no, you hadn’t exactly left but… no, that was something you would face later. For the moment, you were going to enjoy seeing her again. It hadn’t been long, but she had grown into her own. Beautiful as always, too.

And way too quiet for your liking.

“Chamomile okay?” You asked when the kettle was near screaming.

She nodded once, not removing her eyes from you. It was unsettling; you had used to love it. Astrid wasn’t like normal girls, and not in the “too cool for school” kind of way. It was more of an “I’ll be me whether anyone likes it or not” kind of way. If she wanted to be weird and goth then she would and no one could stop her!

But you didn’t like how she was looking at you.

You placed the teabag in the mug and slid it in front of her. The kettle was only seconds away from screaming when you pulled it off the stove. No need to burst anyone’s eardrums. There was no point in being careful with the scalding water as you poured it into her mug.

“You disappeared,” Astrid said while you were mid-pour.

“About that,” you hummed.

“Does your mom know?” She continued. “That you’re right back where you started?”

Your mom. Momma. She had been left all alone after… how had she fared? Were the townspeople nice to her? They had better be, or you would personally bring hell to every single one of them.

“What does she think happened to me?” You asked as you turned around and placed the kettle back on the stove. You didn’t turn back around.

“What everyone else thinks,” Astrid said, “that you ran off.”

“Was she okay?”

“Honestly?” She asked. “She said she was glad you got out of this little town. Said you were too good for it anyway.”

Well that… that almost hurt worse than knowing she never knew the truth. Your momma hadn’t been perfect, but she had done the best with what she had. Time and time again, she had told you in her drunken stupor that you were destined for great things. You had always taken it to heart.

You need to tell her.

“Hey, Astrid?” You asked with a weak voice.

She hummed for you to continue.

“Remember in school when we would say we didn’t believe in ghosts?”

“Yeah, why?”

With a sigh, you turned to look over your shoulder. Astrid’s head was tilted slightly in that way you always found cute. It didn’t click just yet. She just kept looking at you, waiting for you to continue. You raised your brows at her. She was almost there, you could tell by the slight crinkle in her nose, and- ah, there it was.

“You’re joking,” she said.

You gave her your best tight-lipped “white person” smile but otherwise didn’t answer.

“You saw one?” She asked.

Oh. Oh, no, she didn’t get it.

“Well, yes,” you said, turning your full body so you could lean back against the stove and look at her, “but that’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are-” there it is “-oh.”

There was something in her eyes when realisation dawned. Her eyes, while a gorgeous dark brown, were usually so bright. So happy, even when she was trying to act like she didn’t care about the world around her. But this was different. Any brightness dimmed to practically nothing.

“How?” She asked.

You shrugged and looked away. “The football team pushed me off the bridge.”

It wasn’t a fond memory, that was for sure. The icy layer covering the river had been rather sharp. But even that hadn’t compared to the pain of inhaling freezing water deep into your lungs. From what you could remember, it was slow. A memory you didn’t enjoy having, but maybe one day it would go away.

“You were murdered?” Astrid asked incredulously; horrifically.

“I mean listen, it’s not too bad,” you attempted to play it off. “It got me out of taking winter finals, which we both know I would’ve failed.”

“But it’s-”

“-I know, Astrid,” you interrupted.

You liked Astrid. You would even go so far as to say you loved her, mostly probably. Were you young? Sure. A little stupid and naive? Absolutely. High school sweethearts? You would say so, yeah. But she instigated a little too much, and she wanted to know everything, but this just wasn’t really something you wanted to indulge her in. Not yet, anyway.

Astrid was quiet for a moment. The gears were turning in her head, you could practically smell the smoke coming off them. What was she thinking, you wondered. Was she dwelling on the fact that you had died, cold and slow and alone? You certainly hoped not, it wouldn’t change anything. You were dead, you were now a ghost, and long-distance relationships weren’t that hard any more thanks to technology, so you could both still make it work!

If she wanted, of course.

“I thought my mom said her ghosts were stuck in the house for, like, a century or something,” she said instead.

You laughed. That was much easier to answer. “I told their caseworker I’d take their place. You know, let them rest in peace, or whatever,” you waved your hands vaguely.

“Caseworker?”

“It’s a long story.”

“So you’re why the previous owners left?” She asked.

“Guilty as charged.” You wiggled your fingers in her direction and smiled.

For the first time all day, she smiled back. God, you missed her smile.

“If you really are a ghost,” she said with a tilt of her head, “how can you pick things up?”

“Ooh, we’re getting to the fun questions,” you said with a smile.

The look on Astrid’s face was perfect. Curious, distrusting. The best mix of emotions; you loved when she was uncertain. It was a more genuine look for her, instead of trying to act like she knew everything and always knew what to expect. Always made her look super cute, honestly.

You walked over to where she was sitting at the run-down table. She turned to keep facing you until you were standing directly in front of her. It was going to be a risk, but one you were very much willing to take. Worst case, you stay stuck in the stupid house forever. No different from your current predicament.

“Took me a few months to really get the hang of it,” you said. Her eyes sparkled again. “You just focus on what you want to touch,” she blushed, “and voila.”

Her blush vanished when you picked up the mug beside her. What you really wanted to do was touch her. Gods, you wanted to know if you could still feel her warmth, the softness of her skin. But it wasn’t time. No, she was probably still worried about the fact that you had… well, you know. Died.

“It took you months to figure out how to do that?” She asked with a cheeky smile.

“Shut up,” you huffed, placing the mug back on the table. “It wasn’t like I had much to work with.”

“Why didn’t you ask my mom’s old friends how to do it?” Astrid asked before leaning back against the table. “I’m sure they would’ve helped you.”

“Never actually had the pleasure of meeting them,” you said with a shrug. “I only got to meet the other guy.”

“The other guy?” She asked, looking away in thought for a moment before looking back at you. “Oh, you mean Beetlegeu-”

-you slapped your hand over her mouth before she could continue.

“Don’t say it,” you whispered.

She nodded once, and you pulled your hand away.

“Was he really that awful?” She asked, matching your tone.

“He was that annoying,” you grumbled. “God, I swore the guy would never shut up.”

Astrid did her little crooked smile and laugh. The one that you would always try your best to force out of her during class to get her in trouble. Wait, that sounded bad. You didn’t want her to get in trouble, you just would have enjoyed her presence in detention. With you.

“So what else did you take two years to learn?” Astrid asked. She leaned forward until she was so close you could smell her shampoo. “Anything exciting?”

Wait. Wait, this could be your chance. You might be able to do something about it, this could be your shot. Two years in limbo, sitting in a run down house that did nothing but remind you of Astrid with everything you saw. It was her family’s house. You couldn’t leave her even if you had wanted to.

“Well,” you said, “there is something I’ve been wanting to test out.” You looked up to meet her eyes. “May I?”

“Let’s see what you got, ghosty,” she said.

You nodded to yourself and focused. Focused on her body, more specifically her face. Her stunning, beautiful, gorgeous, smiling face. Day after day, you had been thinking of her, and you had hoped time and time again that somehow she would come back to the house.

One deep inhale, hold your breath. Your hands were shaking so badly you would have dropped everything had you been holding something in the first place. And yet, Astrid didn’t budge when you lifted your hands and placed them on either side of her face. Exhale.

Her body was absent of warmth. Astrid had never been an exceptionally warm individual to begin with but this was… different. You couldn’t bring yourself to tell her that you couldn’t feel her. Sure, you could touch things, but you couldn’t feel any of it. It wasn’t something you could describe, except calling it surreal.

“May I?” You asked again.

You could feel her breath on your lips even as she nodded. It was all you needed to pull her into a kiss. There was still no warmth, but there was a… a comfort in it. In feeling her lips against yours again after so long. To feel her breath mix with yours, replacing everything you didn’t need but you so desperately craved.

Her hands attempted to settle on your hips but fell straight through. In turn, you felt her shoulders sag as she placed her hands on your knees instead. That was… not a nice feeling. Maybe you could learn to focus enough to let her feel you back. That was possible, right? Surely it was.

You pulled away slowly. If you could have stayed kissing her for the rest of your century in that hellhole, you would have. But unfortunately, Astrid still had to breathe, and you had to give her the space to do it. Earlier you had questioned if you had really loved her or if it was a puppy love?

Oh no. It was the real deal.

“You can’t leave at all?” Astrid asked. “Not even for an hour or so?”

“You mean the haunted house isn’t romantic?” You teased.

“What do you even do in here all day every day?” She asked.

Once again, she reached out to touch you. Somewhere, anyway. You looked down at where she was attempting to hold your hand. Maybe if you could focus really hard, it would work. As far as you knew, you couldn’t materialise. At least, you didn’t think you could. But if you really concentrated.

Her fingers slipped between yours and, for the first time in two years, you felt her squeeze your hand. Physical touch. Real physical touch.

“I, ah,” you stammered, looking down at where she was still holding your hand. “It’s in my contract to scare people.”

“Contract?” She asked. Your arm moved as she pulled you closer. Okay, maybe physical touch was a bit unfamiliar to you after so long, you would need to get used to it again.

“My caseworker says I have a quota to meet,” you said, finally looking back up to meet her eyes. “So many people each quarter, you know?”

“So you need people to scare?” She asked. “On a regular basis.”

There was a sparkle in her eye. Something dangerous; scandalous.

“You have something in mind?” You asked with a tilt of your head.

Her smile was vicious. And attractive.

—---

The house looked beautiful in the daylight. The paint was fresh, the inside was cosy, and when nighttime fell? Rumour had it the ghosts came out to play. That was why most people rented out the house; their own private haunting for a night. The listing said if you could survive the night, the stay was free. So far, no one had lasted long enough to even give it a good shot.

And as you stood at the end of the bed watching the young couple sprint down the stairs screaming, you knew they wouldn’t be the winners either.

You walked over to the window and watched as they threw their singular bag into their car and peeled out of the dirt driveway. It hadn’t even been any fun, they hadn’t given you any time to actually scare them. Hell, all you had done was stand at the bed! You hadn’t made any faces, hadn’t pulled any jumpscares, you had simply stood there.

Were you really that scary?

“Gone already?” Astrid asked in a sleepy voice as she walked to stand beside you at the window.

“Didn’t even stay long enough for me to have any fun,” you pouted.

“Well, you’ve hit your quota,” she said. She grabbed your arm and pulled it over her shoulder before tucking closer to your body. After a few months, you were finally starting to feel a bit of warmth from her.

At least, you thought you did.

“Your mom is coming by in the morning?” You asked.

She hummed her confirmation.

“Maybe I can try to scare her, then,” you said.

Astrid pulled you away from the window and started walking you toward your shared bedroom. Not that you really needed the sleep, but it was nice to be able to lay next to her. It was exhausting to keep a more physical form, but for her? You would do it all day every day.

“Good luck scaring her,” Astrid said as she pulled you onto the bed. “She practically grew up with ghosts.”

“I’ll scare your grandmother then,” you said softly, but she didn’t move.

Astrid was already asleep in your arms, just like you had always imagined. Maybe being dead really wasn’t as awful as everyone had always made it seem. After all, it got you your dream girl.

[meazalykov]

girl in the ring

salma paralluelo x fem!reader

summary: salma didn't think that she would meet the love of her life at the gym

warnings: none, just reader being a huge flirt

the gym is quiet, just like every other night at this hour. 

the only sounds are the faint hum of the treadmill beneath salma's feet and the rhythmic thuds of your fists hitting the punching bag. 

salma didn't expect to see you here again—though, by now, she kind of hopes every time she comes. it’s been a few weeks, maybe more, since she first noticed you. you’re always in the same spot, hammering away at that bag like it holds all your enemies together or something. 

you’re captivating. the dark green matching set on your body flatters your skin tone-- and it’s becoming harder for salma to keep her eyes to herself. 

she tries to focus on lifting, tries to keep her mind on the routine—bench press, dumbbells, deadlifts—but out of the corner of her eye, she can’t help but sneak glances at you. 

your punches are so precise, sharp, like you’ve been doing this for years. the way your arms flex with each hit, toned and controlled, has her completely hooked.

after she finishes her lifts, salma makes her way to the treadmill for some cardio. 

her heart’s already racing, but she tells herself it's from the workout. the boxing ring is in her view now, and she watches as you climb inside, training with one of the coaches. you’re fast—like, really fast. your footwork is insane, and she’s mesmerized by the way you move, dodging and weaving effortlessly before landing a perfect jab. 

she looks at your fast feet and wonders if you're faster than her. your reflexes are insane, something that would've benefited you if you played football-- salma thought.

she knows she shouldn’t stare, but it’s impossible not to.

salma’s still caught up in watching you when she sees you move out of the rings. you look exhausted, yet content at the same time.

she assumes you’re heading to the locker room, but then you’re suddenly right beside her treadmill, a playful smirk tugging at your lips.

"so... what’s a pretty girl like you doing here at 3 am?" you ask, your tone teasing but warm.

the treadmill was at an incline, so the barcelona winger lowered it so she was at the same ground level as you.

salma feels a flutter in her chest, momentarily startled but recovering quickly with a smile. 

"i could ask you the same thing, beautiful," she shoots back, eyes sparkling with amusement.

you chuckle softly, and there’s something easy about the way you talk to her, like you’ve known each other for more than just these passing glances. 

"fair enough," you say, running a hand through your slightly tangled hair. 

"i’m y/n, by the way."

"salma," she responds, feeling a small wave of relief. you don’t recognize her—no mention of barcelona or the fact that she plays on one of the biggest football clubs in the world. it’s refreshing.

"nice to meet you, salma," you say, and there’s a spark in the way you look at her, like you’re genuinely interested. 

"so, what brings you to a place like this at this hour?"

salma shrugs, trying to play it cool, though your attention is doing things to her composure. 

"i like it when it’s quiet. less crowded. i can actually focus on my workout."

"yeah, same here," you say, leaning casually against the treadmill. 

"plus, no distractions. unless you count the girl who’s been staring at me for the last thirty minutes."

salma’s smile heated up instantly. "i was not staring!" she protests, though her laughter betrays her.

"oh, you were definitely staring," you tease, your grin widening. 

"but don’t worry, i don’t mind. kinda flattering, actually."

salma rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling too. "you’re confident, huh?"

"just observant," you reply with a wink. 

"you know, i don’t usually chat up strangers at the gym, but you’ve got me curious. you’re fit too. wanna grab a coffee after this? or are you one of those girls who have a strict post-gym routine?"

her heart skips a beat, but she tries to keep her cool. unaware that you were feeling the same way.

"i don’t have a routine like that. actually, i was going to ask you if you wanted to grab coffee in the morning."

"why not now?" you counter, raising an eyebrow. "there’s a 24-hour café a couple of blocks from here that i go to. we can grab a drink after we get showers, of course."

salma smirks, finding your spontaneity refreshing. "alright, why not now?" she agrees, feeling an unexpected thrill at the prospect of getting to know you outside this gym.

after both of you shower and change, you head to the small café down the street. the place is cozy, and at this hour, it’s almost as quiet as the gym, with just a couple of people scattered at tables studying for school.

you order your drinks, finding a seat near the window. the conversation flows easily—there’s no awkwardness, no weird pauses.

"so," salma starts, stirring her coffee, "i have to ask. are you, like, a professional boxer or something? you’re really good."

you laugh, shaking your head. "nah, i’m not a boxer. just a hobby, really. it’s my favorite form of working out, but i don’t do it professionally."

salma raises an eyebrow, impressed. "you could’ve fooled me."

"thanks," you say with a small smile. "i’m actually an esthetician. way different from boxing, i know."

"wait, really?" she’s genuinely surprised. "i wouldn’t have guessed that. you seem so... tough."

"hey, i can be tough and take care of people’s skin," you joke, and she laughs, the sound soft and genuine. 

"but yeah, i love what i do. boxing’s just something i picked up because it keeps me in shape and helps me clear my head after a day of extracting blackheads and massaging people."

"i get that," salma nods. "football does the same for me."

your eyes light up in recognition. "football? you play?"

salma hesitates for a second, but then decides to tell you. "yeah, i play for barcelona... i’m a winger."

you blink, taken aback for a moment. "wait, like *that* barcelona?"

she chuckles softly, nodding. "yeah, that one."

"damn," you say, clearly impressed. "that’s really cool."

"thanks," she says, a little relieved that you’re not freaking out over it. "it’s fun. exhausting, but fun."

"i bet," you reply, sipping your coffee. "so, does this mean i’m on a date with a famous footballer?"

she bites her lip, trying not to grin too hard. "maybe. does it bother you?"

"not at all," you answer, leaning back in your chair. "just means i have to step up my game for the second date."

"second date, huh?" she smirks, intrigued.

"if you’ll have me," you tease, your tone playful but sincere.

salma’s heart flutters at the way you look at her, and she can’t help but flirt back. 

"i think i can arrange that. maybe you can come to one of my games. i’ll even get you the best seats."

you grin. "sounds like a plan. just let me know when, and i’ll be there."

the two of you spend the rest of the night talking, laughing, and learning more about each other. it’s easy—effortless, even—and by the time you walk salma back to her car, there’s an undeniable connection between you. 

as she gets in, she pauses, giving you one last smile.

"so, see you at the gym tomorrow night?" she asks.

"wouldn’t miss it," you reply with a wink. "see you around, salma."

and with that, she drives off, her heart racing in a way that has nothing to do with the gym.

my masterlist is here if you want to read more!

[sunshine-theseus]

Angel In Disguise | Esme Morgan x Reader

Word count: 2k

Summary: life’s hard when all your students prefer your footballer partner over you.

Warnings: fluff, children? idk how the English school timeline works and the Australian one doesn’t match up with the story so I’m just saying school starts in like September and ends in late May??

Request for: @wlwskyy i hope this is good! it's probably not as good as I hoped but i'm still pretty happy with it

Being a primary school teacher was hard. Trying to help students who struggle with the content while also helping others progress. Being strict while also wanting to be fun. My biggest struggle though, was a very me specific one.

Esme Morgan loves to visit me or help me out at school from time to time, and just like everyone else she meets, the kids fall in love with her. From the first time they meet her, they’re begging me to bring her back.

“Ms L/n it’s so cool you’re dating a footballer! Can you bring her back tomorrow? And the day after that and the day after that one until forever?” and once they realise that she actually has her own job to do, they beg I bring her in at least once a term.

It was my first year teaching after university, the first time she’d come to work, and it had been a complete surprise.

After she broke her leg in 2021, Esme struggled to fill her time. She’d made about 27 bracelets in the first 3 days, then tried to bake a little, although it went rather poorly. She then watched all the original Disney movies in release order. I think she got to Mulan II before she decided enough was enough.

I was in the middle of teaching the times tables when there was a light knock on the door. I could see her cheeky smile through the small pane of glass and rushed to open it for her. Esme stumbles through the door, her moon boot and crutches making it difficult for her to fit through the rather narrow frame.

She pecks me on the lips and the room erupts in childish giggles. Romantic affection was something so foreign to 8 and 9 year olds.

“Es… what are you doing here?” I whisper as I pull a chair for her sit on.

“I got bored, and I miss yoouu.” She smiles up at me and I can’t help but smile back.

“Oh! And I brought gifts for the kiddos!” she holds out a paper bag and I peak inside.

My heart melts at the pile of hand-crafted bracelets, ranging in colour and design, that fill a significant proportion of the bag.

She spent the rest of the day surrounded by my class. Eventually I had to stop teaching because they were so in love with this angelic limping figure who brough them friendship bracelets. I don’t think Esme prepared for them all to assume she was every single one of their best friends.

~~~~~

It was nearly Christmas break when she first met my class for this year, and everyone knew who she was. For the first time, I didn’t have to introduce her or tell them what she does for them to get hyped.

“I WATCHED YOU IN THAT FOOTBALL THING” and other similar phrases are shouted many times when she enters the room.

When I looked at her it was hard not to smile. She was playing and talking with kids and giving them all little bracelets, just like she does every year.

As she was crouched in front of a small group who were excitedly asking her questions, Marley, a rather shy and quiet girl, walked up to Esme and lightly tapped her shoulder. She fiddles with her fingers and avoids looking at anyone as she waits.

“Excuse me Mrs Esme?” Esme is already smiling when she turns to look at Marley.

“Hey kiddo!”

“Um you’re my favourite player of all time. I watch all your games and wanna grow up and play just like you.” And Esme’s smile grew bigger, something I wasn’t sure was possible.

“That’s so cool! Can I give you a hug?” Marley nods and giggles into the embrace, and then they begin to talk about Marley’s interest in football and Esme’s work.

I’d been struggling to get her to talk for 2 months, and Es came in and got her to talk within minutes, but I can’t stop staring lovingly at the angel of a woman in front of me. There was a part of myself I saw in Marley. I’d struggled to be very open for a long time until I met Esme. She just had this gentle, caring nature that was hard to ignore.

-

Marley misses her the most between visits. They’d made a secret handshake and love to chat and giggle on the oval at lunch, kicking the ball around.

In between visits Esme and Marley both interchangeably would give me something to give the other; a bracelet or a packet of lollies or a flower they found randomly. It was so hard for me to not burst from how cute their friendship was.

It had changed Es as well. Obviously, she has always been welcoming and warm-hearted but she’d become more confident about her play and sometimes I would catch her bragging to her teammates.

“I’m Marley’s favourite player!” it took them a while to realise who Marley was, but they found it adorable.

-

We’re in our last week for the school year, just in time for Esme to make one more surprise appearance before she has leave for camp for the France Olympics. I’d told the kids she wasn’t sure if she would have time to make it between finishing up the season and preparing for the Olympics, but that didn’t stop them from begging me to bring her in.

It’s the last day, everyone already buzzing for their long holiday, and admittedly from the lollies I gave them. I always try to make the last day super fun, activities and music and a surprise guest.

By midday I’d already had to apologise that Esme couldn’t make it. 17 times and counting.

And by 1, there was a knock on the door. A knock the kids were all too familiar with, and Esme rushes into the room, kids swarming her from all angles.

“Hey kiddos!”

“Hey pretty lady” she turns to me and kisses me quickly. Gags and loud ‘ewww!’s echo out.

Marley waits patiently with a small bag in her hand, still considerably shy. Esme wastes no time in getting to the young girl, with a similar bag in hand.

“Hey Mar! I got you a little something.” Esme hands the bag over, and everyone watches carefully as she pulls out whatever lays inside.

I see the familiar light blue peak out, and recognise the jersey design I sport most weekends. The present is clear when Marley starts jumping up and down in excitement.

“It’s one of my spares so don’t tell Gareth, ok? I got all the girls to sign it.” Marley is wrapped around Esme before she can finish the sentence.

“Thank you!” she scrambles to put her bag in Esme’s hands before tugging the shirt over her head.

I nearly scream when I see Esme pull out a black and purple jersey, colours I know from all the pictures Marley shows me of her games, usually with a trophy in her hands. Her last name and the number 14 adorn the back with a tiny ‘Marley’ in black sharpie on the ‘1’.

“Oh my god Marley this is so cool! I’m going to keep this forever. In a few years time I’m going to see you playing for England and know I got the first ever Marley jersey and signature. And of course you’ll play for Manchester City yeah?” the little girl eagerly nods her head.

-

The day goes on and the kids go home for the last time. Esme leaves after an hour of helping me pack up the classroom, to start dinner and I don’t finish until 5:30.

By the time I pull into the driveway, I’m exhausted, but satisfied with my work for the year.

I leave most of my gear in the car to unpack another day and walk to the door. I struggle to open it for a moment but when I do, I’m hit by the smell of my favourite meal cooking and the sound of Esme singing, albeit not well.

I drag my feet into the kitchen and wrap my arms around my wife, kissing her back as I just rest against her.

“Hello my love.”

“Hey sunshine.” I pause for a moment.

“You’re so good with kids.” She hums as she turns the stove off.

“And you helped Marley so much.”

“She’s a good kid, it’s hard not to like her.” I pull away and reach up to kiss her on the cheek before looking for the small gift bag.

“What are you doing?” Esme questions as she begins to plate to the food

“Well we have to measure Marley’s shirt for a frame so we can hang it up don’t we? I want to be able to boast to the world in like 8 years time about how I taught her and how we have her first ever signature.” I poke her in the side as I grab my plate.

“Well how about we do that tomorrow? I just want to cuddle with you tonight before we have to pack and get ready for camp.” I let out a loud groan.

“I can’t believe you’re taking me to France, and we’ll barely be able to do any of that gross romantic shit together.” Esme smiles down at me, regret floating behind her eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

“Noo I’m so excited I just think they’re cruel for making players do their job or whatever.” I jokingly roll my eyes before I lean back into her on the couch, both our plates sat in our laps.

“I promise to take you to that restaurant on the top of the Eiffel Tower before we leave.” She kisses my forehead.

~~~~~

“This is light work for the defender, tapping the ball passed Courtney Nevin and chipping it passed the Australian goalkeeper! IT’S A GOAL FOR ENGLAND AND THEY FIND AN EQUALISER IN THE OLYMPIC FINALS!”

I cheer at the goal with the rest of the stadium, hugging the small girl next to me as she bounces in excitement.

“Did you see that mumma? She scored! Mar Mar scored!” Reese shouts over everyone else.

“I did! It was amazing, wasn’t it?”

When the game ends, I pick Reese up and we rush down to the pitch with the other family members, celebrating as we make our way. It takes us a few minutes to spot the players we’re looking for but when Reese points them out, I put her down and she runs toward them without a single thought.

“Congratulations!” I pull Esme into a kiss before turning to Marley. The 16-year-old smiled brightly at me before hugging me tightly.

“Your goal was fucking phenomenal Marley! They should make you a striker.”

“But then she wouldn’t be just like her favourite player” Esme buts in, our daughter falling asleep on her hip. We all laugh and continue to talk with the other girls and celebrate until we decide to head back to the hotel to put Reese to bed.

“I’m so proud of how far you’ve come you know?” I pull Marley into my side as we wait for the elevator.

“From ‘shy little 8 year old who refused to talk to her teacher’ to ‘number 14; defender and debut scorer for her country at the 2032 Olympics at 16 years old’.”

“And one of the youngest and best signings for Man City!” Esme chimes in

“Thank you for always believing in me.”

After we say goodnight to Marley and make sure Reese is definitely asleep, I climb into bed with Esme.

“You’re so amazing.” I stare at her. Sometimes I don’t understand how I was blessed with such a kind-hearted, gentle woman.

“I try.” We break out in giggles and I slap her lightly on the shoulder.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” we don’t say anything else.

She kisses me hard before I rest my head on her chest, her arm wrapping around me as we fall asleep. She’s my angel in disguise.

[tartts-blog]

My Reputation's Never Been Worse, But You Can Buy Me A Drink (Part One)

Roy Kent x Fem!Singer!Reader

Taylor Swift Reputation Inspired Series- Requested by @akornsworld

series summary: roy and the reader go from strangers, to lovers, to so much more. inspired by taylor swift-reputation.

part summary: roy and the reader meet at a bar and form a connection

content warning: language, angst if you squint, mentions of an abusive relationship

a/n: this series will likely be 8 parts. feel free to comment or message me any other requests! i write for roy, jamie, and royxjamie. i'll also consider writing for keeley depending on the request.

masterlist

You promptly decided 5 minutes after getting to the bar that deciding to go out for a drink after already having a throbbing headache was a mistake. All you wanted was a break. A break from the media, a break from being constantly reminded of your shitty ex, just a fucking break in general. Your career was overwhelming you, and you’ve had enough. After your extremely public break-up with your ex boyfriend, the media has been harassing you consistently. Even though there was video and photograph proof that he had abused you, majority of society still took his side. Your music sales plummeted, and for the first time in your career your most recent album didn’t make the top 100 list. Everything was just shit. Therefore, showing up at Bones and Honey on a random day of the week was quickly become a routine for you.

Everyone there tended to mind their own business, and leave you alone to wallow in your thoughts. At least, that was until the entirety of the Richmond football club showed up. To be honest, you don’t really follow football, but you recognized most of the players. Your dad loves football, AFC Richmond specifically, so you grew up watching a shit ton of games (even though you never quite understood the appeal). Performing arts was always more interesting to you. So when Roy Kent came to you at the bar, you were probably more open with him than you should’ve been. The amount of drinks you’d already consumed also probably played a part in that. He walked up to the bar next to you, ordered a pint, then turned to look at you.

“Oi, you’re Y/N Y/LN right?”

“Yeah, and if I’m not mistaken you’re the infamous Roy Kent?” He nodded his head up, seemingly surprised that you knew who he was. “What, didn’t expect a singer to follow football?” He looked a little apologetic at that.

“No, sorry. I just didn’t expect you to be so fucking blunt to be honest.” You laughed.

“Yeah, I get that a lot. Anyway, I’m assuming you’re here as a celebration or something. Why are you over here with me and not your team? I’m not exactly a prize.” The bartender brought over Roy’s beer and he took a swig of it.

“I’m with those pricks everyday, and you looked upset. As weird as it sounds I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” That made you uneasy.

“Look, I’m not in the mood for a one stand with a footballer, or whatever else you want from me. I just came here to get my mind off my fucking job and get plastered for the night.”

“Oi, that’s not what I’m fucking here for, if it was I would’ve just fucking said that. I honestly just wanted a minute away from those little pricks,” he pointed over to the rest of the Richmond team on the other side of the club, “and like I said I really did just want to make sure you’re alright. You looked all in your head and shit.” He took another chug of his beer, and you felt your guard start to slip. You took that opportunity to look him over, and that’s when it dawned on you just how attractive he really was. He was fucking fit.

“Alright then, and yeah I’m fine.” You promptly downed a shot of tequila you had in front of you, next to your martini. You really were planning on getting trashed that night. He raised an eyebrow at you, and you pretended not to notice. You stared up at him, suddenly realizing how he was just awkwardly standing next to you instead of actually sitting down at the bar. “Look, if you’re really going to bother yourself with talking to me could you at least sit down and quit standing there like a creep. And buy me a drink.” He let out a chuckle at that, sat down, and ordered you a martini. You smiled softly at him, suddenly a little embarrassed.

The rest of the night went by in a blur. Roy was actually quit enjoyable to talk to, but you know that after that night your little section of the world just to the two of you would end. You would have to go back to your shit career and personal life, and he would go back to coaching a premier league football club and everyone loving him. You tried not to think about that while you were with him though. You found yourself laughing more than you had in months.

You vaguely remember making fun of Roy’s deep voice and the way he talked after both had consumed several more drinks. You couldn’t tell if it was just the alcohol or not, but you were pretty sure he knew that you meant it as a compliment. As the night came to a close, he walked you out to your cab, and you both said your goodbyes. You realized in the cab on the way to your house that you couldn’t stop smiling. Shit. It would be a fucking disaster if the media got wind of the fact you and a football manager, of all people, spent a night at Bones and Honey together. But who could blame you? It was Roy fucking Kent. And you could already tell he was going to make you crazy.

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[fauxnotice]

ALIEN SKINCARE. v! blue lock/male! reader. originally posted on quotev. masterlist.

CHAPTER IV. JUST KICK THE DAMN BALL, PERCHANCE.

Just as you’re about to wonder if you’re ever going to actually play football in this place, since it’s been around three days of doing nothing but various physical tests, Ego is helpful enough to announce that the results of those have been finalized. Thus, your rankings have changed as well. By your reasoning, if each team got one member kicked off during the first test, that would mean that you should bump up by quite a few rankings.

Your hypothesis is proven correct, as the number on your shirt rises by twenty five places. 

His goal point system is interesting as well. You decide to set getting a proper bed as your first objective, as those shitty futons are disastrous for your back. And an unhealthy back means an underwhelming football performance, and you can’t have that. That, additionally to this peculiar uneasiness that’s been plaguing you ever since you arrived, was bound to only bring you down.

But that was a worry for later.

You had already assumed that Blue Lock was going to be an intense environment, and Ego proved you right. The rules of the so-called First Selection were rather cutthroat, intending to further aid in sowing the seeds of desperation within participants as it went on. Truly an eat-or-be-eaten situation. 

You can’t say that you’re against it. 

Then, the weird man proceeds to drop the biggest bomb of all -it being that your first match as Team V would be held in less than two hours. 

The screen returns into its initial pitch black state, and the entire room is thrown into disarray.

Well. A good part of the room. Some of you are much less affected by the sudden revelation than the rest. For your part, you’re sitting down on your futon, attempting (and failing) to find the most comfortable position. You really need that deluxe bed, huh.

Detachedly, your sight lands upon the “analyst”. Of course, he doesn’t seem worried at all, though from what you’ve seen, Karasu isn’t the type to show it visibly, even if he was perturbed by something. You can easily tell that he’s thinking of something, grinding of gears almost audible in the realm of reality. How cool, you think humorously, it’s our “weakest” that’s trying to be rational about this.

The majority of your team is pacing around restlessly by now, complaining in vain about not knowing how to build a team of all forwards. Someone even suggests playing rock-paper-scissors to decide who will be playing each position, which sounds like such a deliberate attempt at reducing your chances of winning it almost makes you laugh out loud. 

Sone, the guy signed into your memory due to his less-than-impressive performance during the initial exam, looks incredibly tense. Like, tense enough that you think if you poked him on the shoulder right now, he’d have a heart attack and die. His polar opposite is found in Otoya, who is lying on his back, entirely unbothered as he twists his signature green strand of hair between his fingers. His nonchalance is truly extraordinary.

At some point, somebody walks up to you and asks for your opinion as the “strongest” (as if some stupid number actually meant anything). In all honesty, you didn’t spare a single thought on how to proceed, as you had spent the past few minutes lamenting your shitty living conditions, so you’re kinda stuck on what to say. Not for long however, as you are nothing if not an improviser, and also a person who uses others to save your own skin when the time calls for it. Thus, the most logical decision is to throw someone under the bus. And there is only one candidate for it. 

“I think Karasu-kun already has an idea.” You smile. “So let’s hear what he has to say first.” 

All inhabitants of Room V collectively turn to look at the mentioned boy. He sends you a look that’s too quick for you to interpret. Even you find yourself rather curious, especially with how relaxed Karasu seemed to be, almost as if he already had the entire game in the bag.

“Puttin’ the spotlight on me like that … are ya tryin’ to embarrass me?” Karasu smirks, clearly not even close to being embarrassed. You simply continue smiling. 

“No, not at all. I’m just saying that I think you’re the best person for the job.”

“And what made ya think that? Not that I mind the compliment.”

Unwilling to unravel the methods of your reasoning, you only shrug lightly. “I’m simply a very intuitive person.”

“Should ya really be relyin’ on intuition right now? Who knows, maybe I’m the biggest buffoon in the room.”

Your smile widens. “Then I’ll put my trust in the buffoon.” 

Karasu actually does laugh at this. The others, however, are far from laughing, and are feeling like this supposed strategy meeting is getting derailed into a session of bickering between you two. Which is happening at the most inopportune time possible. And yet, no one seems to want to speak up, as if what you and Karasu are discussing is of some great importance. Even Otoya stood up to observe the event.

Karasu’s eyes meet your form with an intensity that would unsettle most people. But you-you’ve felt worse. After seemingly debating something with himself, he finally speaks up again. “Well, let’s see if yer intuition is worth anythin’, or if yer a naive dumbass.” And he ends it at that. 

There’s a miniscule twitch in your brow. But whatever. If the scales don’t tip in your favor, you’ll force them to. “The stage is yours, Karasu-kun.”

Karasu makes a sarcastic bowing motion. “Many thanks, Mr. Angel.”

This bullshit again? You swear, that weirdo has done irreparable damage to your image. You can only hope that your stupid nickname won’t spread amongst people, because you don’t know how much cheesiness your psyche can take before you do something unpresentable. 

But you’ll brush that off for now, as it seems like Karasu is about to finally say something worthwhile. 

“The other team’s probably jus’ as unprepared as we are.” He begins, even and collected in his delivery of what could possibly make or break your future career. “Which means they’ll have buncha holes in their plays-if we poke at those weaknesses enough, they’ll topple right over.”

Everyone seems to find this reasonable enough. You do think it’s a sound start to a strategy. 

“But that’s not enough, right?” You ask, tone as serene as always, but you’re guessing that Karasu can notice the almost challenging suggestion behind it. “We can’t just bet on our opponent’s incompetency to win.”

Karasu snorts in turn. “Duh, obviously. I was gettin’ to that.” And he’s grinning. What a cheeky bastard. “Even if they manage to make a workin’ team, there’s always those who’re laggin’ behind. The mediocre ones.” 

The way he accentuates mediocre is no different than the rest of his sentence, but you feel a particular importance put into it. Mediocrity … Those who continue to be plagued by it won’t make it far into Blue Lock. 

You’re already forming some kind of picture of who Karasu is as a player. Once more, you feel anticipation blossom within your chest like a late flower, although you squash it before it takes full form. Such clear-cut strategic playing … is it truly what you’re looking for? 

“Uh … that’s nice and all,” some brunette with an unfortunate haircut cuts in. “But how are we supposed to decide who’ll play which position? We’re all forwards!” 

As patient as you strive to be, it doesn’t stop you from thinking that some people need to use their ears (and brains) more than their mouths. Could he not wait, for like, a minute at best? Karasu obviously got the planning covered, and he wasn’t stupid enough to skip over the critical part of the entire process. But whatever, it is what it is. You make no move to acknowledge his rather useless addition to the conversation. 

Karasu graces the questionably-intelligent specimen with a proper response, at least. “Since most don’t have experince when it comes to playin’ different positions, each one of us should think of somethin’ they’re good at that they can use in the match.”

“So something that’s our “weapon”?” Otoya pipes in. You’re surprised that he was even listening at all.

Karasu nods. “Sure, let’s call it that. Everyone, think of yer weapon.”

Wow, what assertiveness. Seems like he fell into the leadership role with no problem. It appears that the rest of your teammates had the same thought, since they all turned to think about their new “assignment”.

That includes you too, as you’re, shamefully enough, stuck with the dilemma of what exactly you excel at enough for you to share. The abrupt feeling of … you’re not sure what, as it twists your insides with something akin to shame, uncertainity, dissatisfaction, irritation, and a plethora of other unpleasant things. But you manage to supress it all, or rather tuck away for later. Personal feelings of weakness mean jack shit on the field. If you bring them in, be ready to leave with nothing but a scorching loss on your hands. 

Of course you have useful skills. You’re you.

So you manage to land on something you’d describe as a weapon. 

When it’s your turn to share, you put on your best face as you speak. “Other than my flexibility and balance, I’d say my playmaking is pretty good.”

Karasu then proceeds to stare at you in silence for a good minute, enough to make you feel awkward and oddly violated as he keeps trying to pry into your very being with only his gaze. You show no signs of discomfort, of course, although you raise your eyebrow in question as he continues to attempt to psychoanalyse you or whatever he is doing. You truly had no clue. What a guy.

“And yer shooting, striker?”

Well, his rather interrogative question strikes you as quite odd, since he seemed to accept everyone’s answers without any fanfare except for yours. Is he trying to provoke you? You bet he is. He’s trying to throw you off balance, like a lowlaying hunter waiting for its prey to misstep. What an underhanded method! No wonder his entire philosophy hinged on attacking the weakest. A viable, rational way to go about things, yet it still doesn’t sit right with you. 

You don’t know why, however. 

Your lack of reasoning greatly bothers you. 

“What about my shooting?” You seep out sweetly. Maybe you overdo it, because it sounds forced even to your ears. You belatedly notice the team that observes you two with keen interest. 

“Nothin’.” Karasu fires back just as coolly. “Ya just seem like the typa guy that’s real’ proud of his strikin’ ability.” 

Okay, now you’re beginning to get annoyed. This is exactly why you can’t last long around people like Karasu; so self-assured in their capability to tear others apart, ignoring all that is wrapped around one’s core as if it meant nothing. Was he suspecting that you were hiding something? Was he theorizing that you were the star actor of some arbitrary play, with him being the only member of the audience to be aware that what’s presented in front of them is not reality, but a farce? As if. 

With the best of your ability, you mold your expression into something that could be described as sheepish. You even throw in a nervous laugh, as a bonus. “Is that really the impression I give off? To be honest, I don’t think I’m good enough to be boasting around.” 

With the way something in Karasu’s eyes changes, you’d think he had hit a jackpot. And he probably did, you think, in his own roundabout way. 

“We’ll see if yer good or not once the match starts.” He says, as if it’s that easy.

The ending of your little exchange feels like a bitter loss on your part. Even if you choose every step of your act carefully, it’s greatly aggravating how easily Karasu seems to be able to come in and push against you. Truly a bothersome crow. You’d throw rocks at it.

Of course, he is also in charge of everyone’s positions. So it does come as a bit of a shock when Otoya of all people gets chosen as the center forward. Was your assumption about there being some type of animosity between them wrong? Or were they simply mature enough to put that aside on the field? 

Whatever it is, it’s fine by you.

You make your way to the pitch with the resignation of a man joining the losing side of a war. 

It’s the same as always, which saddens you in some way. You wish you could feel the jitters of excitement, or even nervousness, yet your heart is as steady as ever. Even recalling the rules of Blue Lock does little stir you up; perhaps getting eliminated is fine, if you manage to find what sort of football makes you feel like a living being, and not a paper doll given consciousness. 

Your opponents stride towards you with as much confidence as they can muster up. When you look them all over, yet no one seems to stand out. Still, you hope for an outlier to appear, someone who could make you feel weak in the knees after the game. 

(Alas, there is no cold-hearted forward with long eyelashes to steal your breath out of your lungs this time.)

Team Y moves in a rather standard way, with a few of their members sharing passes as they begin their attack. Surprisingly, they seem to be rather coherent as a team, or at least coordinated enough to not trip over themselves for possession of the ball. As per Karasu’s plan that he so gracefully shared with the rest of you, Team V falls back into defense. 

You do a quick scan of those on the field. Everyone is at their positions, moving as smoothly as possible. Karasu, of course, is doing the same as he inspects the movement of each player with great intensity. You can see Otoya slowly speeding up. 

The pieces for the plan that Karasu suggested earlier are falling into place. It’s showtime, you guess.

Otoya, who let you know that he is supposedly a descendant of a long line of ninjas of all things, actually lives up to it, much to your amusement. He easily weaves between the rivaling players as he makes his way towards the one with the ball, who is unfortunately still unaware of the threat that is approaching.

And just like that, the advantage falls into the hands of Team V.

Glancing off to the side, you become aware that your scheming companion seems to be donning a rather smug expression. Or rather, it’s even more smug than usual. You wonder what exactly he has in store that gives him the right to be so confident.

Somewhere along the line, the ball hits the goal in favor of Team V, marking the first official goal of your Blue Lock experience. Too bad it’s not yours. Not like you’d want to claim ownership of such an average shot, of course. You’d say it’s a solid five-point-five out of ten.

Karasu says something about … installation? You aren’t really following, but you assume he’s had some form of significant revelation of sorts, but you aren’t quite sure. 

When the game resumes, a detail strikes you as noticeable. 

Team Y has no players with exceptional speed. 

No wonder Otoya’s attack easily tore them apart.

Karasu throws a grin your way and has the nerve to speak. “Just figured it out, Mr. Angel? Ain’t that a lil’ too slow?”

Oh, aren’t you getting sick of his smart ass. Letting his vocal chords rest once in a while could do him some good. As another benefit, you’d enjoy that a lot as well! “Keep your head in the game, Karasu-kun.”

He snorts, just like that. You fight the urge to roll your eyes. 

The boy who has the ball has a fairly sturdy build, but you can’t help but notice the barely visible, yet present, wobbliness of his feet. 

Huh. Neat.

You move to pressure him. You truly had no intention of taking the ball, honest -but it simply seems to stick to your feet! The big guy fumbles as you hook your foot between his own and with an elegant movement bring the ball towards your form.

Too bad you have to part with it early, as two other guys move to swarm you. In the corner of your eye, you spot Karasu, loitering around like a permanent thorn in your side. 

Your heart still beats steady in your ribcage. 

Getting the ball to Karasu would be so painfully easy. 

You click your tongue in distaste. You reel your leg back and send a polished low pass his way. With it, goes the unspoken prayer: Excite me. Make my presence worth it. 

Karasu pushes onwards, until some brunette from Team Y interrupts him. Now, a curious part happens; he stops, and starts rolling the ball across the grass, letting it get away from him, gaze thrown to the side. 

No way, goes through your head as you watch the other’s bewilderment. You fight back a smile. What cruelty.

As the poor victim of this charade foolishly moves to steal the ball, Karasu reels it back in, forcing himself into his opponent's personal space. He easily marches towards the goal, followed by a flock of stupefied players. 

Now, you think he’s engaging in some type of trash talk, if the angered visage of the bamboozled brunette is anything to go by. You don’t even hear what he’s saying, so you fill in the blanks easily, using your foreknowledge of Karasu’s irritation tactics.

Looking at him more closely, you guess his surname’s kind of fitting. If anything, his crazy long limbs make him seem like some sort of bird, as he pushes against various bodies with no issue. A nasty, nasty crow, that’s for sure.

Boom. It’s two goals for Team V.

In terms of scoring prowess, you’re falling behind. But no matter how much you force yourself to react to the fact, you remain unmoved. This showdown feels more like a one-sided beatdown, and swatting flies really doesn’t seem all that fun. 

Although there are interesting things happening. Like Otoya and Karasu hooking up. In football terms of course, even if with how they suddenly started smoothly playing in tandem you’d think there is some previous connection between them. Which there isn’t, you know, as they seemed to be quite opposed to the idea of the other literally days ago? Did you miss something? 

Was this the work of pure and practical interpersonal understanding between partners? You have no idea. Unfortunately, in contrast to their ascension, you got a demotion. Which does piss you off, honestly. Once someone who carried your entire team, you’ve now become a bystander feeding the two passes so they can score. And to be frank, you wouldn’t even mind if your pass led to an amazing play, but these goals weren’t even close! In fact, they were in no way similar to the perfect play of your dreams! 

But even the frustration that is felt deep within every fiber that makes up your vessel, you can’t bring yourself to attempt to change that.

What a useless thing, you!

Team Y experiences a humiliating defeat of 6-0. 

You feel like you’re going to throw up, or something. There sure is a heaviness in your gut. Usually, you’d work off your intense emotions by training, running, doing whatever else, but you’re already sticky and quite unwilling to further push yourself physically, so you make a straight route to one of Team V’s training rooms without even looking back at your teammates, since your usual, although well hidden, distaste for people got increased by at least a hundred percent. 

You don’t even care if you feel Karasu’s eyes on your back. Not like it’s anything new for the A-class creep. Kinda insane how he called Otoya that on the first day, yet he’s the one acting in ways that you think are generally frowned upon in society. But what would you know? 

You unceremoniously drop yourself against the wall once you reach your destination. You didn’t even turn the lights on. Which is annoying, but you don’t want to get up, so you sit there in the dark like a pathetic piece of shit.

You think for what you deem to be a long time. You initially think about the game, obviously, but that makes you feel worse, so you try to think about something else. It doesn’t work.

You love football, don’t you? And the answer is always, no matter when or where, instantaneously going to be a yes, certain like nothing else in your life is. And love makes you happy, so happy that you want to die, doesn’t it? That’s what it is. A feeling so intense that nothing else compares. 

So why aren't you feeling happy? You finally had a chance to compete against other supposedly skilled people, yet you were left feeling hollowed out, uncomfortable in the prison of your own skin. 

Amidst all your turbulent thoughts, the unwanted reminder of … Itoshi, of all people, rattles you enough to snap you out of your miserable episode. Why would you think of a guy you met once now, of all times? You don’t even know his first name, yet his afterimage clings onto you like a memory of a dead wife would onto a husband. 

Yet … is he not the one that forced you into the world of the living, all those weeks ago? The way he played was so out of the ordinary that it had awakened something within you, as well. But now, even if you try to recall any notable moments from that game, you’re only met with the recollections of joy, from being forced to submerge yourself into the flow of the game, and hatred, that he had dared disturb your everyday mundanity so rashly, without any consideration. It had left you feeling so weak, that Bachira had to carry you almost the entirety of the way home, and yet it was no product of exhaustion.

Itoshi. You hate him. You need to play against him again.

He must have come to Blue Lock. There is no way he hasn’t, right? If Ego didn’t invite him, that would be an astronomical waste. 

It’s fine. It’s only the beginning. You’ll play your type of football, you’re sure of it.

You just have to wait.

(You fail to notice that your teeth had pierced your lip, leaving crimson droplets to weave paths down your chin.)

A clear shot into the goal marks the ending of the match, and declares the opposing team the undeniable losers. 

Itoshi Rin doesn’t even spare a glance to the result as he marches away from the field, ignoring his bothersome teammates all the same. It’s the same as always; a bunch of NPCs who attempt to challenge him get crushed. If this is all Blue Lock has to offer to him, then it’s a waste of both Rin’s time and their money.

The memory of his brother emerges. Of course it does; it’ll remain with him until Rin proves the worth of himself and his dream. It’s the almost exact same picture as that day, where Sae -so different from how he used to be, with his gaze, resentful and dark, that had never been aimed at Rin before then -tore at his very being as if their brotherhood and shared promises meant nothing.

And then, the memory shifts, like it has never done before.

Sae’s visage gives way to a smile, dangerously cruel in its delivery, leading the owner’s lips into a wobbly line. You, of all people, some lukewarm nobody, come back to haunt Rin as you dance around him as if it required no effort on your part, all with that dull spark in your eyes, as if he was truly someone undeserving of standing before you, much less his brother. Not only was your goal the first offense; it was not enough for you, as you had continued running against his side, like a shadow, as if to ridicule him as you matched his every move with the precision he had only seen in one other person. 

He barely remembers your name. It’s not important. 

Next time, I’ll crush you. Rin had promised. But of course, you had smiled, as if gazing upon a petulant kid who had no idea about anything. You, you, you. So elegant in your performance of maliciousness. 

Like by some premonition, he knows you’ll be in Blue Lock.

And when the time comes, he will stand against you again and make sure your mocking grin makes way to awe, as he destroys you, completely and thoroughly, before he finally reaches his goal. He’ll make sure you understand where you stand -as an insect on his path. 

(He doesn’t take note of how tightly he’s been clenching his fist, allowing a ghastly white color to drench his skin.)

[belmottetower]

3.11 - Council Estates and the Right To Buy

In 3.11, we saw Jamie go home to his mum’s, and we learned that she still lives in the council house that Jamie grew up in. This has interesting implications and possibly negative ones if construed the wrong way. In the Subjectify articles, we've already discussed those implications, because it's something I've been concerned about since we first saw the trailer shot of Jamie's childhood bedroom. I knew even then that the story beat would have to be about throwing back to the Roy poster - that's why they had to keep Georgie in the house Jamie grew up in, rather than have her in a new house elsewhere. It was a choice made specifically so Roy could see the poster. 

But in making sure that could happen, it leaves us with the unfortunate framing that Jamie didn't buy his mum a house when he got rich, and "buying your mum a house" is basically the first thing a working class footballer like him would do with his money. It's a really standard baseline. I have been nervously obsessing about Ted Lasso accidentally implying that Jamie wouldn’t have done that, for months now. I had already decided, before the episode aired, that if they did not clarify either way, I would have to assume that she did not want to leave the place she lived, and that rather than a new house, Jamie had bought her their old house on the Right To Buy, a government scheme introduced in the 1980s that allows most council tenants to buy their council home at a discount. (I do have issues with this policy generally, and the impact it had on the amount of council housing available, but that’s not for now.)

There is sort of a level of visual evidence for this - the inside of his mum’s house is really well maintained and clearly full of pretty expensive furniture and items. They definitely own it, and having now met her, gotten her vibe and seen the kind of house it is, it makes a huge amount of sense to me that she stayed there. It might have felt different if we saw a different KIND of council home, but in this specific situation, it tracks. 

There’s a bit in my primer about this, but in the UK, council housing comes in a lot of different shapes and sizes. Some of them will be flats in tower blocks (like the one Roy points to from the Westway sports pitch in 2.05 - in real life that is a council housing block in Ladbroke Grove and private apartment buildings like that simply don’t exist, Roy is a council estate kid too) or the flat fronted buildings with outdoor walkways (think Kingsman, or Rose’s place in Doctor Who) but a lot of them are houses like the one you see Jamie’s mum living in - solidly built terraced houses on car-free streets, inside the boundaries of an estate. Sometimes the estate in general contains both apartment blocks and rows of houses, with some green spaces built in too. That No Ball Games sign is a staple in any and all council estates across the UK and is ignored in council estates up and down the country by children just like the ones seen in this episode and it is lovely to think about Jamie once doing the same thing. I really liked getting to see the kind of estate he grew up on.

So, TL:DR - they would own that house now, even though it’s on an estate, otherwise they would not be eligible to still be living in it. And it’s not universally horrible to live on a council estate, or in a street of ex-estate houses.

But that “Jamie didn’t buy her a house” discourse is definitely brewing - I have seen people discussing this already as “wrong,” and I agree that it is wrong in the sense of they should have taken a line or two to clarify the way that situation might have worked, specifically to not accidentally paint Jamie in a bad light. What I don’t agree with is that it’s “wrong” for her to have stayed put - that living in that area, in that type of house, on that estate is somehow inherently bad and a situation she should have been rescued from by Jamie. And at this point, insisting that she should leave or have something better is swiftly bordering on classist.

There are a lot of stereotypes that exist about working class families and council estates. That they’re all shitty places to live, that everyone who lives in them is a benefits scrounger, or a druggie, or an alcoholic, or are involved in crime or gangs. Frankly it’s an awful stereotype that just furthers the classism and class divide in the UK. There are issues in some places, but it is not ubiquitous. Georgie clearly had Jamie pretty young and would have been granted a “family home” house by the council. Living in a little cul de sac like that, it’s very likely she had a strong community of neighbors, other families with kids who all would have supported one another. She would have been looked after, as a young single mum, and Jamie would have been safe to run about and be cared for by everyone in the street if Georgie was working. It would not have been perfect, but it may have felt safe and warm in its own way.

So once Jamie got rich - given that Georgie doesn’t seem to have any other kids who might benefit from a bigger house or anything - I can honestly see Jamie trying to buy her a fancy house somewhere else and her being like “What the fuck would I do in some fancy suburb in Chesire? This is my home, I’ll stay here thanks,” and so Jamie just bought her the council house they’d grown up in and paid to get it renovated and done up nicely so Simon could have his laboratory, and Georgie a nice place to live, with her friends still close by. Except for his childhood bedroom, which she clearly refused to let him touch and him being the biggest mummy’s boy ever he didn’t argue. 

Britain used to be incredibly proud of its strides in social welfare, and council housing was once very good quality building work. (If you ever want to watch a show that depicts the origins of, and pride in, social welfare for the working class communities in the UK in a beautiful, nuanced way that will make you sob every other episode please go and watch Call the Midwife from the beginning and come scream at me about it.) These are desirable homes - in fact, Right to Buy aside, a lot of older council housing, both houses and flats, are “de-counciled” and sold off privately to new home buyers who were never in the welfare system. I actually rent an ex-council flat in London, from a landlord who bought it privately. And I have a friend of a friend who privately bought and renovated an ex-council terrace almost exactly like Georgie’s. It’s not the greatest thing when council housing gets privatized, especially when the new replacements are of such terrible quality. But the original places are built to last, so Georgie’s house definitely could be done up to a high standard once they had the right to do improvements that were not the bare minimum of the overstretched housing organization. And between Right To Buy, private sales, and people who are still in the council housing system, an estate like Georgie’s these days may have any number of privately owned homes mixed in, and different incomes and circumstances within the same street or block of flats. Some are quite gentrified and even trendy.

I’m explaining this so people know the context when they talk about a council estate like the one we saw. I think there is a tendency to want to make Jamie’s background and childhood the most traumatic it could have possibly been, even more so than is on screen, and so it’s possible people who are less familiar with the UK and how council housing works or what council estates are like, could think that Jamie’s home growing up and the estate he lived on was awful and shitty and very very rough. And that could have been the case if he had lived on one of the rougher estates or in a flat in tower block that was falling apart and hard to do up not worth salvaging (a lot of them are being torn down) but that is not the kind of place the episode chose to show us. So now, having seen it, saying “How dare Ted Lasso not show him buying his mum a big house in order to help escape his traumatic upbringing and dirty poverty life” is honestly not a great take and is a pretty classist way to look at the millions of families in the UK that live in council housing. The episode absolutely should have stated that he bought that house rather than risk letting anyone think she’s still living within the welfare system because Jamie didn’t take care of her, but there’s a difference between that and removing her from the environment entirely if she was happy and at home there.

But speaking of adding extraneous trauma, there’s another element of Jamie having been brought up on an estate that I also want to talk about. 

As someone who has been, in my fic, flying the flag for Jamie’s mum being alive and lovely and for them to have been super close for what feels like an eternity, this episode was so so so good for me. I’ll be honest, I always found the fact that some people were certain Jamie’s mum was dead quite baffling, because in the show, the way he talks about his mum right as far back as Two Aces, using present tense means it always seemed clear she was alive and I really just took the “Don’t think she would be lately” part about not being proud to mean that she didn’t know how he had been acting at Richmond, in training, with Ted and Sam, because he didn’t tell her. Not that she’d died, or had become estranged or something.

And then even aside from like, grammar, I just never thought the show depicted Jamie as someone who had suffered the loss of a parent. Especially when you compare him with Ted - who we all know did. Jamie was just not written as a character who is carrying around grief, especially recent grief, and his apology to Roy in season 2 proves it - "I aint used to being around dead people. It just, it did something to me, emotionally." This is very different to Roy’s explanation of why he acted so weirdly towards Keeley at the funeral itself - namely that memories of his grandad’s death were messing with him. It would be a very weird choice by the writers to have Jamie lie and say he hadn’t been around death if he had lost his mum.

So yeah, I always thought she was alive, and I always assumed - based on the ages kids tend to get scouted and acknowledged as good by the academies - that James hadn’t been around much until Jamie’s mid to late teens, and as such that Jamie didn’t ever live with James, just saw him occasionally. He certainly would not have ever had custody rights, if he walked out when Jamie was a baby and showed back up when he was 14.

But while I found the “Jamie’s mum is dead '' takes surprising, I almost preferred them to the theories and fics (sorry, people have the right to write what they want in fic, but I just hate it) that his mum was probably an alcoholic or a drug addict, or absent, or complicit to the James abuse, or just generally a bit shit and anything less than fantastic. Because Jamie talks about her in nothing but the nicest, softest terms, and Jamie himself - when not in his prime prick era, which legitimately only lasts for about three episodes - is the nicest, softest boy with the strongest sense of self. Even if he’d never mentioned his mum, his whole personality felt like it was the product of an upbringing with a whole lot of love and kindness and nurturing and being made to feel special. 

The swiftness with which he reverted to sweetness and openness even in season 1, as well as his natural ego, the funny version of it, felt like his natural state of being, not a new development, and I always attributed this to his mum, which we now obviously know to be true. I’ve seen lots of people this week saying “As soon as we saw Jamie with his mum, EVERYTHING about him suddenly made sense,” and I am thrilled that people see this now, because this is what I always thought. I reverse engineered what his mum must be like based on his character so far, and it turned out just as I thought but even more so. I’ve also seen ideas that even if nothing was “wrong” with her, Jamie was somewhat estranged from her due to James and also sounding wistful when talking about her, or something, but I very much disagree. The two times he’s spoken about her, he has ALSO been talking about James, which was the thing he was sad about - they weren’t moments where he was being peppy and enthusiastic about how much he loved his mum. But also, now that we’ve met her and seen them together, I can kind of imagine him talking wistfully about her after not seeing her for like, a month, just because he is always missing her, LOL.

Anyway, how people interpreted their closeness or estrangement before this week is obviously something we did not know for a fact. The thing is, what we did know is that she was a single mum and that Jamie lived on a council estate in North Manchester, and that knowledge is what made me really side-eye some of the interpretations that framed her as either an addict or a kind of deadbeat figure that meant they had a bad relationship in some way. Because in the UK, there are a lot of stereotypes and stigmas around single mums in general, but in particular working class single mums who live on council estates. It’s really really awful and often revolves around them being unemployed, benefits scroungers, being neglectful or abusive, being drug addicts or sex workers, and it’s a really pervasive part of UK society and classism, and it felt like the details we knew about Jamie’s childhood on an estate is why people leant that way about his mum in a way they wouldn’t have if the council estate thing hadn’t been specified.

Where I work, we represent people across the UK and help get their stories shared to impact politicians. In one instance we got someone we represent onto the national news to talk about the cost of living crisis. She’s a single mum. When the clip got shared on social media she faced so much abuse and harassment and stigma because of these pervasive ideas people have about single mums and ended up having to delete her social media to get away from it. It was deeply upsetting to her, myself and my coworkers.

So I honestly always found fic or meta in which a character who, based on canon, is only ever mentioned as being attentive, loving and someone Jamie has a good relationship with, was portrayed along the above lines really hard to read. It just always felt rooted in the worst kind of stereotypes and classism, even if not intentionally. Anyway, point is…I am so fucking thrilled that we finally got to meet Jamie’s mum, that Georgie is lovely and kind and cuddly and supportive, that Jamie is an even bigger mummy’s boy than I ever could have dreamed, and that he even had a bonus soft baker stepdad father figure who had been around long enough to know that Roy Kent’s poster never left Jamie’s room. And the fact that his parents live in a house they now own, on a council estate where Georgie had a long-established community, is a perfectly fine choice. It isn’t something you need to retcon, you just need to know about the Right to Buy scheme.

[thetarttfuldickhead]

do you think how Jamie reacted to Roy and Keeley's teasing at the auction in 1x04 was related to his trauma from his Dad making him loose his virginity to a lady from the red light district? and do you think after the three of them officially get together, that they ever talk about that?

Tricky one, nonny, because as much as I tend towards Watsonian explanations over Doylist ones, in this particular case I can’t quite disregard the fact that I am not at all convinced that Jamie’s Amsterdam backstory was in place when 1x04 was written. It might have been, sure, but… yeah, I doubt it, actually.

And, like, in hindsight, after 3x06, it’s hard not to connect Jamie’s discomfort at the gala with his experiences in Amsterdam. Even if he doesn’t consciously join the dots himself, even if he’s not yet realized that the experience was traumatic to him (and I think 3x06 does suggest that it was, even if it’s possibly to argue otherwise), the notion of having to have sex with someone he doesn’t want to have sex with, especially when they’re that much older (not because having sex with old people is gross, obviously, but because it would mirror the experience he had as a child), would have made him deeply uneasy.

I mean, it would make most of us deeply uneasy, so that’s not the strange part. The strange part, really, is that Jamie believes – if only for a little while – Roy and Keeley’s assertion that he’ll need to put out. Becaue, yes, Jamie’s not always the brightest, but of course the club’s not actually pimping out the players. He knows that, surely. But for a moment he isn’t sure – and maybe that’s because it’s already happened to him, hasn’t it? Not quite like this, no, but money exchanged and him required to fuck someone he had not chosen to fuck. So, yes, things like that can happen and maybe they do happen at Richmond because Jamie didn’t see it coming the first time either, did he, but no, it’s just a fucking joke, Roy and Keeley having a laught and he looks like a right idiot now, doesn’t he, for having believed them, and he can’t even articulate (not even to himself, I think) why he thought, for a moment, that maybe…

Yeah. Makes a horrible sort of sense, doesn’t it?

So, in hindsight I think we can read his reaction being at least partially related to what was done to him in Amsterdam, and normally I’d be perfectly happy with that, actual text over authorial intent, but in this case I can’t stop wondering about what it all was originally intended to mean (if, indeed, the Amsterdam part was not known to the writers at the time of writing 1x04). Maybe it intrigues me because it has the potential to reveal more and interesting things about Jamie? I don’t know, and I don’t have any real theories either, just… something about football players being used to getting sold and traded, something about his sense of self and value directly tied to his body and what he can do with it, time spent creating his brand and the slight disassociation and/or confusion between self and image it can cause (even as I think that Jamie has a very strong sense of self generally). Given all of that, is it so outlandish for him to briefly assume that maybe this too might be required? Especially given his experiences in Amsterdam… Can be a mix of the two, really. Maybe that’s the interpreation I mostly favour.  

As for if they ever talk about it... I don’t necessarily think it’s something Jamie would bring up and I doubt Roy immediately connects the dots once he hears Jamie’s tale of his first Amsterdam trip. Keeley, I think, doesn’t know what happened in the Red Light District; to me, Jamie telling Roy reads very much like a ‘first time I ever told anyone’ thing, but that’s obviously open to interpretation.

But say something reminds Roy of that gala dinner, and what was said then. Maybe they’re getting ready to attend it once more and this time they’re dead pleased to be seated at the same table, making little jokes about can you fucking imagine if someone would have told us then that this is where we’d end up and could have saved ourselves so much trouble if we’d just gone home together that night and Keeley playfully reminds Jamie that he doesn’t actually have to sleep with someone if he doesn’t want to and Jamie pouts like that shit wasn’t funny but he’s laughing too because it was long ago and they’re here now and he doesn’t tend to dwell –

– but Roy goes quiet because wait hang on oh no fuck no, and he doesn’t say anything right away, they need to get going and he’s not sure is he, and he keeps on saying nothing throughout the dinner, and behind the still face he is quietly spiralling as he watches Jamie’s every move like a hawk, every twitch of his lips and every roll of his eyes.

Jamie and Keeley both notice, and are both confused. They keep exchanging glances and when Nate’s off to the loo and Jade’s done her disappeaering act and Sam and Dani drag Jamie off to join the rest of the team for a round of shots, Keeley takes the opportunity to lean in and ask what’s going on, Roy, are you okay?

He’ll tell her then, I think, and that’s not great – not his story to share – but it’s eating at him and there’s no one else for him to confide in and Keeley is part of it too, so yes. He tells her; she’s upset but still the voice of reason; no matter what happened that night Jamie’s doing fine right now, he’s having a great time with his friends and we shouldn’t ruin that for him, but come tomorrow we’ll have a proper chat all three of us, okay, sort things out?

And come tomorrow, they do.

[boinin]

Do you have any kunigami headcanons?

Hey! Thanks for the ask.

I'm one of those people that scours through canon for blorbo details to build on and develop in the fanfiction I write. So I actually don't have a huge amount of standalone headcanons for the individual characters? Beyond things like how they'd act in relationships, what they might do in the future, etc. That said, I have enough Kunigami thoughts to write a couple novels, so here goes. These are just general beliefs that could apply to Kunigami, personal to my interpretation of his character:

Kunigami is bisexual, but probably not aware of this while in Blue Lock. He finds it hard to differentiate between physical attraction and admiration when it comes to dudes. Chigiri and Barou particularly confuse him for this reason. Classic do I want to be them or be with them dilemma.

He's generally hopeless with matters of the heart. He's oblivious to peoples' crushes on him, male or female. He's turned a bunch of confessions down on the basis that he's too busy to date (aside from lack of interest). In true sports anime fashion, he has a one-track mind... it's all football under that orange cloud of hair.

Speaking of, he's considered shaving all his hair off to avoid sweat dripping into his eyes. His sisters talked him out of it—mostly because him being bald horrified them, but they used the excuse that with no hair to soak into, he'd have more sweat dripping onto his face, not less. His elder sister introduced him to the concept of an undercut while in middle school, which he's been rocking ever since.

If Isagi's team had chosen Reo after winning the 3v3, Kunigami and Chigiri together would have beaten Shidou and Igaguri without issue. Chigiri would have lifted Kunigami's spirits and deflected Shidou's taunts, helping turn things around. They'd steal Shidou despite Kunigami's serious misgivings about playing with him, then sail through to the third selection. Kunigami and Shidou don't get on during this process, but they do develop a begrudging respect. Shidou can't beat Kunigami in a fist fight, and Kunigami will acknowledge that Shidou is a phenomenal player.

The last few speculate about Kunigami having a mental health condition so I've tagged this for that and put the headcanons under a cut in case anyone isn't into reading those sort of takes about a blorbo. Also: post-s2 anime/chp 155+ manga spoilers below in case that's a problem.

At the time of Blue Lock, Kunigami has symptoms of obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD). It's one reason he's so dedicated to fitness and high performance. He experiences anxiety when he cannot complete his pre-decided training due to intrusive thoughts of something bad happening. While this was also the case for him before Blue Lock, it's really exacerbated by the dangling fear of getting kicked out and never getting to represent Japan nationally.

Him winning Wild Card is a by-product of his OCD traits in addition to his existing similarity to Noel Noa. Having confronted the reality of leaving Blue Lock post-2V2 loss, Kunigami saw the Wild Card as a second chance. Already used to pushing himself through punishing workouts, he performs better than his fellow WC peers.

It still does serious damage to his mental health, as the whole process validates the intrusive thoughts he'd previously been able to categorise as irrational. Now he could think, finish the next 20 reps or you'll get kicked out, without being able to contradict himself. Players are getting kicked out around him for not following Ego's insane training regimens.

Ego preys on Kunigami's thought patterns to reinforce the idea that he must forfeit his existing identity to assume Noel Noa's mindset. Kunigami internalises this so well, it extends beyond his footballing and training to his whole personality. Now, post WC, he refuses to even engage with his friends the way he used to, because something at the back of his mind will say, the old you wasn't enough, or, everything you went through will be for nothing if you go back to your old ways now.

This isn't how I characterise Kunigami in all the things I write—it's really just a stream of thought about why he's so dedicated to fitness and how he was able to succeed in Wild Card (at personal cost).

[thenhlteaissuperhot]

Karel Vejmelka interview - "Coming out is still taboo in ice hockey."

Three weeks ago, Karel Vejmelka - the number one goalie of the Arizona Coyotes - did an interview in Czech and I thought that some of the stuff he said there was interesting or funny enough to deserve to be translated and put out on here:

How popular is ice hockey in Arizona? Is it the sport number one there?

Oh, absolutely not. Not many people come to the games, it's like the fifth or sixth most popular sport there. The first is of course baseball, American football, basketball... No one really wants to come to an ice rink. Unfortunately, hockey hasn't found its place there. People have a different mentality. ...In every sport in the US, you see fans who are binge-eating hotdogs, fries and not really watching the game. Sports are a show for them, people go there to have fun not to watch the sport itself. It is actually funny to watch them sometimes when I am not just playing, look into the stands and see what they are doing there, you know, pizza falling under their legs and so on. After the game it is always an absolute mess in the stands.

What about some entry rituals when you come there (to Arizona) as the new guy, do you have to do something, some task or challenge?

We had karaoke there, you had to pick a song to sing and it was funny because we were just going from the teambuilding in a coach and I had to go to the front of it where the microphone was and sing a song. I chose Sweet Caroline and said to myself that it is the smallest evil. But the boys helped me, they sang along, though I still had to suffer through it.

Do you pay some fines, for late arrivals, first zero in the net?

Yes, we do. We have a price list for the different fines. I paid 1000 dollars for the first zero, that was the biggest so far. I told them back then that they should be the one paying me for catching all the shots. It accumulates over time for the big end-of-the-season dinner.

You have been in the net several times when the team played against Connor McDavid (Edmonton), is he for you as a goalie something unique?

He is unique in a way that you can't guess what he's gonna do. In the case of some other players, I more or less assume where are they going to shoot or skate, but in Connor's case, you can't guess anything because he is so fast and has such skilled hands that he always does something different. He is on a completely different level than everyone else.

Can you smoke as players, do chewing tobacco, that's popular among the players, no?

You shouldn't be smoking. Tobacco is like a substitute for that, personally, I don't do it, but most of the other guys do. We have a lot of doping tests throughout the season, this year we had one already during pre-season. In the beginning, we go together as a team and during the season, they can randomly choose like ten guys. I have been chosen like that as well quite a few times actually.

I am not sure whether you have noticed it, but a few months back a lot of people were discussing the coming out of the soccer player Jakub Jankto, it was a huge thing cause no other player on the national team has ever done so. I have never noticed this happening in hockey, is it still taboo to announce that you are a homosexual because it is this sort of masculine sport?

I think so. Not everyone can realize and admit it even within themselves, let alone publically announce it like this. He (Jakub Jankto) is amazing that he had done so, I believe it must have helped him a ton. I personally have a positive attitude towards this, why shouldn't one come out, why should they hide when sooner or later it (the truth) will surface anyway? ... However, there are those "funny remarks" when someone is for example shaving their legs, we do joke about that in the locker room.

[melanieph321]

Ruben Dias x Reader - Set Me Free Part 4/15

Part 5 and 6 are already out on my Patreon for Free!

Ruben and Carla have grown apart. With Rubens career taking off he leaves Portugal to live the life of his dreams, breaking Carla's heart doing so. Years later, upon his return home, Ruben learns that Carla has moved on, happily engaged to another man, but not any man, Ruben's childhood bully João Mendes.

Enjoy!

Carla trudged through the cemetery, the weight of her grief heavy on her shoulders. It had been three years since her father's passing, and yet the pain still felt as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. As she reached the grave, she knelt down and gently placed the flowers she had brought on the headstone.

"I miss you, Dad," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I wish you were here."

"We all do, querida."

Carla stood and was immediately wrapped up in her mother's embrace. She couldn't fathom the weight of her mother's grief. Seeing her tears almost made Carla regret her decision to meet with Ruben behind her back. However, it had to be done. She had to break their promise.

"Should I pick you up later?" Maria asked, who was kind enough to drive Carla to the gymnasium where she agreed to meet Ruben.

"No." Carla sniffled, wiping away the last of her tears. "And don't wait up for me either."

"But..."

"I'm serious Maria. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow."

"Fine."

Carla leaned forward to hug her cousin. "Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah. Just don't do anything you'll regret."

Carla stepped out of the car, Maria's words haunting her as she made way towards the stadium around back. The gymnasium was the local sports center for kids. Carla used to come there to play tennis. She wasn't any good but continued to show interest in the sport well into her teenage years. It was mostly due to the fact that Ruben would accompany her there every week. He had football training in the stadium located behind the gymnasium. At first Ruben was shy to let Carla watch him play, but after sometime, as their friendship grew, as well as their feelings for each other, it became their thing, hanging around the stadium after training. They'd talk for hours about everything and anything. Those were some of Carla's most cherished memories from her childhood. Funny how Ruben was included in the majority of them.

"Carla?"

She arrived to the stadium assuming that she was early. However, as she walked through the gates she noticed a figure puttering around on the football pitch.

"Ruben?"

He made his way towards her. Carla gasped as she had yet collected herself from her visit to the cemetery.

"Carla, you came." Ruben marched with big steps. He crossed the field within seconds and before she could flee he was standing in front of her, happy to see her.

"Ruben I..." She wasn't prepared for the wave of emotions that hit. The close up sight of him, even the smell of him, made Carla lose her trail of thought. "I shouldn't have come." She whispered and made the motion to return to the gates. Ruben's hand caught her wrist however, making her spin back around and face his furrowed expression. "Carla, what's wrong?" His dark eyes searched her face, perhaps noticing her stained eyes and runny nose.

"Nothing I..." Ruben wasn't supposed to see her like this. He was supposed to see how well she was doing without him. How happy she was to have moved on. Carla had to redeem herself. Fast.

"Why are you crying?" Ruben was pulling her towards him. Carla was too numb by his touch to fight. He was reaching for her face, his fingertips bracing her skin.

"Ruben?" she gasped. But he ignored her, his palm cupping the side of her face, his eyes inspecting the outlines of her head, hoping to find a wound, something, to explain why she was already so upset.

"Ruben I'm not...."

He stopped to look at her.

"I'm not hurt." She nodded. "I'm just....my family just...."

"Yes?"

"We were just at the cemetery."

"Oh."

Ruben's shoulders withered, however his hand remained on her cheek.

"Yeah."

The openness of the stadium enclosed around them and so did the darkness of the night. If only the clouds would scatter to reveal the hidden stars in the sky.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, Carla." Ruben's hand left her cheek and suddenly reality hit. "I know how much your father meant to you."

Carla was taken aback by his kind words. But it also made her remember why she was there in the first place. "He's been gone a long time, Ruben. "

"Three years, no?"

"Exactly, a long time."

Three years was also how long it was since Carla last saw Ruben. After their last rendezvous on Christmas eve he left the country and made it clear that Carla was nothing but a bump in the road to him, a taste of home which Ruben felt that he needed at the time.

"How have you been?" He asked, hands shoved into his pockets.

Carla shrugged. "I've been alright. How have you been?"

Ruben mimicked the shrug of her shoulders, a sly grin on his lips. "I've been alright."

Carla realized that she wasn't in any type of mood to be playful with Ruben, turning the charm bracelet on her wrist. She was prepared to get straight to her point in meeting him. However, Ruben ruined everything by talking.

"Look, I know I haven't exactly been there for you during this time."

"You didn't have to Ruben, we weren't together."

"Yeah, I know that. But you are still my friend Carla, I still care about you and your family."

"Do you?" She said, not Carla's intention to snap at him. Ruben stepped back, a skeptical expression on his face. "Like I said Ruben, three years is a long time. I would never let a friend wonder why I haven't been in touch with them for so long."

"Here we go again." Ruben scratched the bridge of his nose, sensing the start of a fight. "Haven't we been over this Carla? It's not like I didn't want to see you for the past three years, but after Christmas Eve your family made it very clear that you wanted nothing to do with me."

It was true. Christmas Eve three years ago was the start of Carla's one year depression. Since Ruben was the blame for it her family did everything in their power to keep him away from her, mainly lying about Carla's whereabouts whenever Ruben's family would ask of her. Carla felt bad. She loved Ruben's family, but it was all for the best to cut ties with them too, at least in order for her to truly heal.

"They are right Ruben, I want nothing to do with you." Carla said, hoping that Ruben didn't noticed the strain in her voice.

"Then why are you here?" He said, looking truly defeated.

Carla removed the ring from her bracelet and held it out in the palm of her hand. "To give you this." She said, failing to meet Ruben's eyes, although she imagined that they were looking down at the palm of her hand, at the ring.

He stepped forward, hands out of his pockets. Carla flinched at the touch of him, of Ruben, closing the palm of her hand with his own. The ring was left buried beneath.

"What are you doing,  take it." She said, looking up at him. His expression was hard to read but he was far from angry with her. "I gave it to you, it's yours." He said.

"Well, I don't want it anymore."

Ruben's lips parted with her words, a silent gasp leaving his mouth.

Carla almost wanted to take back what she said, the expression on his face striking her heart.

"So it's true then?" He said.

"What is?"

They were still holding hands, Ruben's enclosed over Carla's. If he would just take back the stupid thing and set her free, she thought.

"You're marrying João Mendes."

Carla's eyes widened. "Who.. ?"

"Your mother was happy to tell me when we stopped by her salon the other day."

"Right. Ruben, it's not...."

"It's okay, Carla. I'm not angry."

She frowned. He should be. Ruben had every right to be angry with her for being promised to another man, breaking theirs in the process. How come he wasn't, Carla frowned.

"I'm not taking back the ring." Ruben said, letting go of her hand.

"But..." Carla stomped her feet. Very childish indeed. "You can't do this to me."

Ruben stepped back, but kept his eyes on her. "I'm winning you back, Carla, whether you like it or not."

"What?" She couldn't believe her ears. "Ruben?"

He hesitated, but allowed himself to step up to her again, this time with less distance between them. "I'm not letting you break our promise Carla, do you hear me?" He put a finger to her chest, just above where her heart would be. A touch that made Carla's knees buckle. "I'm winning you back. Whether you like it or not."

Part 5 and 6 are already out on my Patreon for Free!

[seventeenlovesthree]

so, apparently there's plenty of death symbolism/metaphors surrounding, are you interested in elaborating that? including "indirect" death like spiritual death, character assassination or death of identity, somethjng along those lines?

- death symbolism surrounding Taichi, sorry, somehow I pressed ask , sorry for my blunder

It's fine, no worries, I already assumed that it was referring to Taichi! If you think about it, several characters in Digimon Adventure have been dealing with the subject of "death" one way or another, most in direct association with someone (human or Digimon) close to them.

Now, if we look at our favourite main character, riddled with traumatic childhood experiences and questionable coping mechanisms, there is a bunch of instances where he had to deal with the potential of death happening in front of him or CAUSING death himself - either to others or himself -, so it should not be surprising that, at some point, he may have dissociated himself (mostly subconsciously, I'd say) from being a Chosen Child. Whiiiich may or may not have led to Kizuna's events, but yeah, it's count the instances first, shall we. TW: death, mental health.

The whole Hikarigaoka incident: While Hikari was scared too, she was still much younger than him and couldn't grasp the implications of what was happening there, while Taichi did EVERYTHING in his power to protect her and himself from not getting crushed by the two Kaijus in front of them.

Him almost causing Hikari to die due to his (still existing) sense of childlike innocence: Yes, she was sick, but he thought she was already on the way to recovery and only took her to play football to cheer her up. That's where he first had to face that good intentions don't always lead to positive outcomes...

The SkullGreymon fiasco: Again, he intended to do good for the sake of the group, but overlooked the bigger picture and became reckless, thus causing his partner to evolve into a literal symbol of death and decay in the process. Something that may have happened to the ENTIRE group if the Digimon hadn't run out of energy...

The electrical fence and its aftermath: This one has several follow-up points, but I still think it's suitable to summarize them all here - first of all, there is him being confronted with the idea of actually dying by getting electrocuted after he was 100% convinced that nothing they did mattered, since they were "just data in a computer". Once again, he was being reckless and careless - not only did it lead to almost killing himself, but in extension, also dooming Sora, whom he failed to save. Overcoming his cowardice, finding his own sense of courage eventually led to victory - but also led to him disappearing and roughly 50% of the remaining group ended up thinking that he had actually died in the process. Meanwhile, he was back in the real world and had to choose between saving only himself, or everyone else as well... And we all know how the answer to this turned out to be.

Him almost causing Hikari to die AGAIN: Of course there have been several instances of death before and after they re-entered the Digital World again, leading to the eventual "fallout" between Taichi and Yamato in regards to how they should deal with the immediate danger at hand... But the most devastating instance here was Taichi reliving his early childhood trauma, fearing that, by taking Hikari with them, he made the same mistakes again, acting thoughtlessly, not considering the circumstances... He has been acting self-sacrificial for the sake of the group before, but it's this arc that shows that he is actually ready to die if he can at least manage to save everyone else in the process (hence why he ended up fighting with Koushirou as well, because Taichi forbade him from taking on any pain himself and Koushirou was having none of it).

Let's not forget that, during the events of Our War Game - and all the follow-up movies, especially Diablomon Strikes Back -, he was also under immense pressure: To save the entirety of Tokyo from getting blown up by a missile and every other side-effect that Diablomon may have caused in traffic or elsewhere... And once again, his own hotheadedness may almost have caused his partner to get killed, to the sense of guilt plays a huge role in here as well...

02 portrays Taichi as matured, it showed that, while he still occasionally needs to get reminded of it, he KNEW that he has to make uncomfortable decisions sometimes; of course he almost despaired when his partner was being captured and corrupted, but he also realized that he may have had to sacrifice him for the greater good; he needed to remind Hikari that the new kids never had to deal with the same kind of death exposure before, but warned her - with quite a grim, but serious expression - that they would have to face it eventually. He grew aware of their duty throughout all this time, through all these experiences, and it's not pretty, but at this point, he was still ready to act.

Tri picks that point of the story back up again by mirroring Meiko's fate with his own - at least to some degree. Once more, they had to face the possibility of having to kill a beloved partner Digimon and at this point, Taichi was questioning whether or not recklessly sacrificing infrastructure and lives for the sake of fighting was the "right way" to deal with everything. It may have felt a bit like recycled conflict at this point, but it's been several years by now, and Taichi is, overall, contemplating his life choices, contemplating his diplomatic future, the status quo AND his "duty" as Chosen Child.

It's through the course of Tri that he: Watched parts of the city get destroyed ONCE AGAIN, almost died through the course of several fights and an earthquake-like blow, had to witness his teacher - whom he greatly looked up to - sacrifice himself, covered in wounds and blood, to save him AND their missing friends... And all that after Daigo told him that they lied to protect them and that he should move on and create a better future... Thus, Taichi decided to go for the kill again. Again, he didn't like it, again, he got reminded by Hikari of all people how terrible it all is, but he knew that he had to.

Kizuna chose a similar premise to Meiko's once again - first of all, if we look at everything above, is it really a wonder that Taichi probably developed some fatigue? We all know, see, can tell how much he loves Agumon - hence why he did end up horrified by the prospect of losing him. And as I pointed out before, he did use the fighting for the sake of having a purpose, because... Who else was he if he couldn't "lead" anyone anymore?

And since the rest of his young adult life was pretty directionless... Can you really blame him for it? The amount of nightmares, the tiredness, the PTSD the previous experiences may have caused in him could never be treated by a "normal" therapist - who could ever relate to all of these things that sound incredibly supernatural and like nothing an adolescent should have shouldered all by himself? Heck, he isn't even able to talk to his friends about it at all (even if stageplay!Agumon told him to!), just swallowing it all by himself, dealing with the thought spiraling in his head on his own.

Hearing Menoa tell him that she lost her partner, making it all sound like a huge punishment for making the wrong choices... It may have rang several alarm bells in Taichi. How often must he have dreaded making the wrong choices? How much guilt must he have felt for the sake of Hikari, Meiko, Daigo, everyone he temporarily let down by hesitating or acting out in the wrong moment, let it be Yamato, Sora, Koushirou, Daisuke... Now there's this young woman who asked him to figure out a way to fix a problem she couldn't herself, a problem that may separate him from his soulmate forever and for what? Because he grew unsure of himself, because he faltered, because looking at all his friends, who found their paths, had become painful and tiring. Because, even after coming to temporary answers, he didn't know who he was and who he wanted to be anymore.

He had to choose to fight so many times, he sacrificed himself as much as he could. Then there was the prospect of fighting Menoa with two possible outcomes: losing would lead to his own death (or "loss of self" since he would have his consciousness be trapped forever in a neverending dream of his childhood), winning would lead to the death of his partner anyway... It must have been dreadful.

When it comes to the different kinds of "deaths" you mentioned, I will try to summarize this quite shortly, even though they're definitely interesting angles.

I believe that a "death of identity" is basically what I have outlined above - while it mainly focused on Taichi's (decline of) mental health, which may also have resulted in a tendency to isolate himself, Taichi's journey is basically some kind of Lion King analogy, where he starts as your typical head-through-wall protagonist, but has to deal with the aftermath of cowardice and the consequences of his choices - and does so by running away from the pain FIRST. From himself and his responsibilities. He also could have chosen to let Menoa win and let his consciousness be turned back into that of a carefree child... But he chose not to let that happen.

Because deep down inside, there IS his path. There are his values, his persistence, his belief system. He's been on the brink of a breakdown, but it's all there. Hence why I really, really, REALLY want to WATCH him getting to his "Simba strikes back" phase at some point, since we only ever saw it implied by the end of each, Tri, the stageplay and Kizuna. We KNOW he will push back, but we have yet to see in what way, if he ever got therapy and how he's actually doing - mentally, physically, spiritually.

Speaking of which, "spiritual death" is a bit harder for me to grasp in his context, but considering how his sense of guilt and fear of cowardice have led him to (temporarily) turn away more and more from his true self, his natural sense of courage and more positive, outgoing attitude... It all leads me back to him having lost his sense of self. I will never forget the feeling of how my stomach dropped during the "depressed adult" scenes in Kizuna. Again, I want to give this movie props for depicting adulthood like that, but it really hurt and felt way too relatable.

And I guess in this sense, we can also talk about "character assassination", because... As you may have noticed, I have linked quite a few analysis posts in this answer, because I have been trying to analyze and understand Taichi for MONTHS now. And sometimes, I feel like I may be trying too hard - who knows me also knows that, while Taichi is one of my favourite characters, I also have my fair share of problems with the AMOUNT of Taichi suffer p*rn in the OG timeline (and I still maintain they only made Taichi as generic as he was in the reboot to avoid these allegations). Some may argue that it's all over the top and that they keep recycling the same conflict (for him and in general) over and over again for the sake of even HAVING a plot to revolve around (which also wouldn't contradict the epilogue too much and actually leading towards it eventually).

For me, it has been interesting to look at all of this in context, as heartbreaking as it is sometimes. Mental health is a serious issue and watching a character like Taichi experiencing at least some form of implied depression after everything he went through tells you that everyone can get affected by this. Even if your experiences won't involve several instances of near-death-situations, even if you are resilient and have a lot of social, mental and physical resources to deal with set-backs or intense, difficult situations... It may still happen. And it's important to show that there are ways to deal with it as well as you can. That there is hope, even if things are not 100% alright.

[forevertrueblue]

My Ideal Nightmare Time 3

Even though I know some people are getting burnt out on Hatchetfield (and I am hoping the next stage musical besides VHSCC is something else) I'm still looking forward to Workin' Boys, the finale of the whole thing (I hope they actually do it at some point), and hopefully a third season of Nightmare Time.

There are definitely some characters I'd like to see further explored in the Hatchetfield multiverse, so here's what my ideal Nightmare Time Season 3 would look like. I'd love to hear what others think about all of this as well as what they've been hoping for.

Minor spoilers for Nerdy Prudes Must Die will be discussed, but not until close to the end and I will provide a clear warning when they're about to come up.

I'm assuming this hypothetical third season once again has six stories, just like the previous two, so with that being said...

Becky Barnes Finally Climbs the Damn Tree: Look, they've been teasing us for years about this particular story. We know they have a song ready for it. And while it could end up just being a thing that's referred to but context is never given, I think this is the most likely story to end up in Nightmare Time, and it's the one the fandom seems to want the most as well.

A Story at the HFPD: The two most surprising omissions from the list of characters who have gotten a Nightmare Time story about them are Charlotte and Sam, and really, we haven't seen much of their relationship in general. I think it'd be interesting to explore that while doing a story involving one of their workplaces, and since CCRP has been featured in multiple Hatchetfield projects already, I'd love to see the inner workings of the HFPD. It'd be especially fun since we now have characters like Detective Shapiro added to the canon, and I can see her butting heads with Sam.

A Deeper Dive Into PIEP: Something else I'm surprised we haven't seen much of in Nightmare Time so far is PIEP. MacNamara seems to be a fan-favorite character so I'm sure we'd all love to see more of his life, like his husband and characters like Xander Lee (who also appears to be a favorite of many for some reason?). I could see this being the season finale, since the Black and White seems to be the be all, end all, of Hatchetfield's troubles.

Deb Has Her Own Drama: So far, all we've seen of and heard about Deb has centered on Alice and been tinged largely by her perspective. I'd like to learn more about Deb firsthand. That's not me saying Alice can't also be in the story (in fact, I'd really enjoy that) but I know in at least one timeline it seems they broke up so I could see StarKid exploring a post-split Deb and what she does with her life next. I'd also love to see Ziggs come back for this story since we know they have some sort of relationship as well. THERE WILL BE MINOR SPOILERS FOR NPMD FROM HERE ON OUT

Ritchie and Ruth (and Possibly Max/other Football Players?): Several of the main NPMD characters have already made their Nightmare Time debuts, and I think if another season were to happen it'd be likely for the others to get theirs. Not sure what the story would be, but it'd be interesting to see a scenario kind of like we started to see near the end of NPMD's first act, with something happening to make the two sides (nerds and jocks) get along. It would probably be whatever the horror scenario is making them reluctantly work together and then find respect for each other by the end (at least, whoever survives the ordeal).

Fuck It, Holloway and Duke Again: In my mind, it wouldn't be a Nightmare Time season without these two coming to save the day in some form or another. Maybe it could be after Holloway changed to Holiday and she has to deal with reinventing herself (likely not for the first time), but probably in a different timeline than Season 2's. Yeah they've already had two episodes as leads/major supporting players, but they still haven't appeared onstage (even though most of us thought they would in NPMD) so this can maybe make up for that disappointment. :)

[tellthemeerkatsitsfine]

This starts out as a post about one specific Daniel Kitson article, then it goes into a John Oliver article, then it just becomes a post about the crossover between Daniel Kitson and John Oliver. Click the link if you want to read that.

Every once in a while, I’ll come across something on the internet that is so relevant to my interests, it leaves me shocked that I have managed to miss it in my previous scourings of the internet for things that are relevant to my interests. For example: this article, from The Times, London (archived version here).

Sometimes I think I’ve already found all the articles about Daniel Kitson that are on the internet – finding this for the first time today confirms that I hadn’t even found all the articles by Daniel Kitson. Which is a rare thing to find, but not completely impossible, there are a few others. Hadn’t seen this one before, though.

It's from July 2003, and it's Daniel Kitson's "survival guide" to the Edinburgh Festival. At least, it's supposed to be. I assume what happened is The Times asked Daniel Kitson to write a survival guide to the Edinburgh Festival, and because he had not yet become quite as determined as he is today to never let anyone find out he exists, he said yes.

I'm going to go through it a bit at a time, starting from this first paragraph:

HISTORICALLY, survival guides are bastions for lazy thinking, shoddy writing and bad comedy. Articles about Edinburgh in particular abound with advice revolving largely around deep-fried foodstuffs, the hills, the penny black and everything else that is pretty much utterly irrelevant. I obviously consider myself way above such tawdry concerns of the hack and therefore will clumsily attempt to do a little more than telling you to avoid street theatre, of which I enjoy a certain proportion, and criticising students handing out flyers, which I think is a reasonable and vital part of the process of selling a show.

I quoted that one just because I like that last sentence. I haven't been to Edinburgh before, but I have been to a lot of folk festivals, and I've been handed a lot of flyers. So I know it can get annoying, but I don't think it's quite annoying enough to warrant how much people make fun of it, especially given that most people handing out flyers are just struggling artists trying to sell their show. I try to be understanding about anyone trying to sell their show, we wouldn't have an arts industry at all if people couldn't do that. I don't complain when people plug something on a podcast, for example. Hypocritically, I do tend to assume that anyone who has ever unironically said the words "like and subscribe" has never said anything of value in their entire life. But flyers are fine. If someone hands you a flyer, even if you've already had a lot and it's annoying, just be respectful and try to be out of their sight before you conscientiously put it in a recycling bin.

So, before I go father in this post, I should say that possibly one of ways in which I have most taken fandom too far is the folder on my computer called “Kitson and Oliver”. It started last year sometime, when I was first getting into Daniel Kitson, and told @lastweeksshirttonight that I’d keep track of every time Kitson mentioned John Oliver in one of his radio shows, so I could share the bits that are relevant to their interests. It snowballed from there, and now I have quite a comprehensive collection of every time I’ve ever seen or heard or read those two telling stories about each other, or rare instances of them being recorded actually doing things together. So of course, I hoped this article would give me more things to add to that collection. And it delivered by the second paragraph:

My perennial Edinburgh flatmate, John Oliver, and I have a plan to get us through this year’s festival unscathed. In previous years our main mode of escape has been PlayStation football. Controlling tiny sporting men into the early hours is the finest way to end any day. Particularly a day that has been dominated by reading reviews, avoiding people, sitting on the lavatory and performing. It becomes tricky only when the tiny sporting men cease to do your bidding and light begins to spill through the curtains, sparking a frantic rush to get into bed before the impending dawn can go full blown. In both 2001 and 2002 computer football was augmented with supporting struts of insular pleasure. Two years ago when I was in the throes of my first solo Edinburgh show and John was enjoying the relatively stress and inspiration-free environment of a package show, we found comfort in lists. In sticking big sheets of paper and back-to-front posters on the walls of our lurid sitting room — as much to hide the shocking pink that lay beneath as to form a canvas. However, once the paper was fixed in place we wrote lists. The lists could be anything: “People we hate”, “Comedians who are s***”, “People who need to shut up”. There was not a massive amount of generosity of spirit emanating from these tallies. It really helped us, though. Not much is more comforting than getting in after a particularly pointless exercise in crowd control, picking up a felt tip and writing “the audience” under the heading “People who need to shut up”, making your way to the PlayStation, switching it on, picking up a controller and settling in. Last year John and I were both performing solo shows. John had left the nursery pool of the Comedy Zone and was finding the wide open waters of solo performing a little choppy. I, of course, had a bigger boat than John, a boat I wasn’t sure I wanted to be in and a boat whose course I seemed unable to control. The point being that we were s****ing a lot. An awful lot. Once more the PlayStation was unpacked and controllers passed out. Once more the tiny sprinting footballers calmed us. Last year, however, rather than writing lists, we made juice. Watermelon, pineapple, apple, orange, strawberry, any combination you can think of. Getting home after a performance that has made you forget why you ever thought your show was remotely watchable is made so much easier when waiting in the fridge is watermelon and strawberry juice less than three hours old. After pouring a glass and picking up a controller you feel that you may actually be the future of comedy once more.

I would pay too much money for a picture of some of those lists. Though I think I do, actually, have some idea of what might have been on them. If I may take a detour at this point, John Oliver wrote his own article just a few weeks later (archived version here). That's almost a companion to this article, just because they were written so close together, both about their experience of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, circa 2003. Though John Oliver's article focuses a bit more on the comedy than on the video games and strawberry juice.

I'm going to quote a few parts of John Oliver's article, that seem relevant because they discuss overlapping experiences, and/or tell us some things that were presumably on John Oliver's lists called "People who need to shut up":

AS I WRITE THIS, by a sick twist of fate, Jim Davidson is performing standup on BBC One, and the thing that is making me want to throw myself out of the window is that this will be some people’s only experience of stand-up. He’s telling a joke in which an Australian man hits a woman. The audience is laughing. Now he’s saying something casually racist. They’re still laughing. Make it stop, please. Think of the children. I’m at the Edinburgh Festival, sitting in my flat overlooking a building site and some teenagers setting fire to a bicycle. Feel the spirit of the Fringe.

...

The interesting thing this year is not just that lots of “political comedians” are here, but that other comedians are commenting on politics far more. The main reason is the war, and the fact that in times of such party-political apathy, millions have hit the streets in marches ranging from stopping war on people to continuing war on foxes — all over two weekends. And the rise of political comment in stand-up has to be a good thing, right? Well, that depends on how it is being done, and whether it contains the question “Have we got any Americans in?” That perennial comedic question used to trigger off lazy comedy: “Anyone notice how fat Americans are?” “How about their lack of irony?” If you like this kind of thing, that’s fine — except that it isn’t, and you’re an idiot.

...

My favourite political comedy comes from a more whimsical background. Armando Iannucci (The Day Today, Saturday Night Armistice) has always done ridiculous satire better than anyone; The Onion website regularly manages aggressive political comedy dressed up as nonsense (their post-September 11 edition was outstanding), and Andy Zaltzman has developed a great political stand-up that is both true and stupid. There does also seem to be a growth in comedy that is broadly about social politics. Daniel Kitson’s show last year had a lot to say about how awful the world is becoming. David O’Doherty regularly produces outstanding shows with jokes from the heart. His stories appeal to how we live our life and how we view the world. The Dinks this year in Edinburgh are a three-man team of articulate clowns who weave together an elaborate political metaphor while jumping around in weird costumes.

...

But people are attempting to move away from the kind of comedy that changes the words to pop songs to insinuate that Ann Widdecombe is a bit ugly. Attacking the cosmetics is pointless. It’s distracting and it’s lazy. George Bush says stupid things, but the entire system behind him is raping the world. And Jim Davidson is still on my TV. Go and see Rob Newman, Andy Zaltzman, David O’Docherty, The Dinks, and, if you’ve still got time, me. We’ll kick our truth for you people, while trying not to.

John Oliver in 2003, everyone. Telling you exactly what he does and does not like. Also spelling David O'Doherty's name wrong, spelling it the way British people pronounce it, which is not the correct way to spell it or pronounce it. But it's cool that he gave him that respect of going on a list of comedians who have something substantial to say, even if most of his material isn't overtly political. He's done some overtly political stuff in the last ten years or so, but I don't think he had any by 2003. (I've just realized, @lastweeksshirttonight, I'm not sure I've ever sent you that second article before, you should definitely read it, and so should all the other people on the John Oliver side of Tumblr, the whole thing's very interesting).

Okay, back to the Kitson article, that doesn't spend as much time naming the things he hates, but does tell us about writing it on walls with John Oliver.

Sport in general is important to our experience of Edinburgh. Aerobie (flying rings), mini-golf and always, like a calming hand on your shoulder, football. Kick-about matches on the meadows are often hastily convened on days when there is slightly more blue than cloud. People surprise you in these makeshift games, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. Generally people are pleasantly surprised by my quick feet and are often let down by John failing to deliver on his flashes of early promise. David O’Doherty, a man with a head seemingly too large for his body, is a phenomenal player, while Danny Bhoy, with a normally proportioned head to torso ratio, has a game that seemingly consists only of pace and ineffective touches of flair. Russell Howard, a great new comedian, is the most naturally gifted footballer I’ve seen but has a propensity to be distracted by food, while Andy Zaltzman remains stoic and determinedly old-fashioned as a defender.

Love this, thank you, Daniel. As I've said before, my favourite type of celebrity gossip in the whole world is gossip about which comedians are best at playing football. So thank you for the scouting report.

Nish Kumar once said that he thinks you can connect everyone's comedy to the way they play football, like how his football playing is inconsistent and he's often on the left wing. Does that apply here? David O'Doherty does have an entire song about having legs that are too short for his body. Danny Bhoy... look, he seems like a nice guy and I think the comedy he does is good for people who like that sort of thing and I don't want to be a dick about this, but I did watch three of his DVDs, and "a game that seemingly consists only of pace and ineffective touches of flair" is not a bad description of that those DVDs were like. Naturally gifted but plagued by the tragic flaw of being too easily distracted is a strong description of Russell Howard's comedic career. And "stoic and determinedly old fashioned" very much describes the style of Andy Zaltzman's obscure and resolutely wordplay-based comedy, if not its content.

While I'm at this, a picture of their lineup that I'm almost sure is from the 2003 Melbourne Comedy Festival, so just a few months before those articles. Look at my favourite type of celebrity gossip:

Actually, now that I look at it, this only features three people who were mentioned in Kitson's article: Danny Bhoy, David O'Doherty, and Kitson himself. Also featuring Dave Gorman, Dan Antopolski, Glenn Wool, Jason Byrne, Adam Hills, Charlie Pickering, and Noel Fielding. A picture that's just always worth throwing in, while I'm documenting 2003.

For the past two years John and I have employed a policy of avoidance (people, parties, agents) and indulgence (computer football, real football, waffles) and it has served us well. This year, however, we are ready for Edinburgh. Not ready in the sense of having a finished show. Not ready in the sense of psychologically prepared for the brief and utterly disproportionate amount of media coverage. But ready in the sense of having tracked down and bought every film we can think of that contains slow-motion sporting triumph over adversity, ideally backed by some manner of stirring music. Edinburgh cannot hurt us now. Negative reviews cannot upset us. Low audience numbers will cause us no concern. Walk-outs will be welcomed. All because the boys in Escape to Victory put up with more than we can ever imagine. It began last year with the stirring Remember the Titans (a film of such perfection that John momentarily forgot about his impending financial loss) and is continued this year with the futile courage of Tin Cup, the once-hip jive talk of White Men Can’t Jump, the documentaries When We Were Kings and Hoop Dreams, both ready to lift us from the depths to the very pinnacle of human courage. Field of Dreams, Chariots of Fire, Rocky, they are all coming to our aid. Like half-forgotten friends returning in the final reel to save the heroes from insurmountable odds. You play sporting footage in slow motion, put music behind it that makes you shiver, and you have a film I will pay money to own.

I love this bit of that article, because it's the first time I've actually seen Daniel Kitson acknowledge a connection I had previously made, that he and John Oliver both talk about how much they love dramatic sports moments set to dramatic music. My Kitson + Oliver folder actually contains a compilation I made a while ago, of Daniel Kitson and John Oliver, in separate stand-up shows, talking about the same phenomenon:

I figured this must mean they'd first come up with this interest together, but I really enjoy seeing Kitson actually tell us the origin of it. That's one of the first things that hugely endeared Daniel Kitson to me, by the way. Fucking right, dramatic sporting moments set to dramatic music are the most emotionally effective things in the world. I love that shit, I've pretty much dedicated my entire life to them.

I've now quoted literally the entire Kitson article besides the last paragraph (though not the entire Oliver article, people should go read that one), so I may as well throw in the ending:

This then is the plan: a juicer, a PlayStation, a football, waffles and paninis, little men doing as they are told, a glass full of juice and a scene of sporting courage ready in the DVD player. Come to me now, Edinburgh, and bring your slings and arrows, your potshots, your misguided ambition and your insularity. Bring it all and do your worst for I am prepared. I am ready.

That is a man who was fucking ready for the raging battle he was going to do with a large plastic cow almost exactly one month later. Going in with that attitude, it's no wonder they did so well.

...You knew that was where this post was going, right? I can't write a post about Daniel Kitson and John Oliver at Edinburgh in 2003 without going back to that stupid fucking cow video.

I find the crossover between Daniel Kitson and John Oliver fascinating (hence the folder). They do such different types of comedy (broadly, Oliver being extremely political and Kitson being extremely personal), but with so many fundamental similarities. Big things, like a similar worldview, full of frustration at individuals and reveling in petty complaints and emphasis on the importance of compassion and obsession with acknowledging everything that happens everywhere and separation between vulgarity and meanness. And smaller, more specific things, like they’ve both got rants against the Santa Claus Day parade and in favour of dramatic music over dramatic sporting events, they’ve both got material about how much they love swearing and about how much they hate people who swear in front of children.

And they both fit into this middle space between nerd and jock that I really like, though that one’s less specific to them and seems to be a defining feature of (almost) the entire Chocolate Milk Gang, which may be one little part of why I like the entire Chocolate Milk Gang so much. I’ve heard Kitson, Oliver, and Zaltzman and O’Doherty all do bits, separately from each other and in different years, about how they were more interested in being professional athletes than professional comedians. Gavin Osborn’s got a whole song about it. Apparently, what I look for in a favourite comedian (or comedy adjacent musician) is it’s nice if they have at least some familiarity with the middle of the Venn diagram between massive nerd and person obsessed with sports.

Most of the stuff in my Kitson + Oliver folder are clips of them talking about each other, because they’ve very rarely actually recorded stuff together. They’ve repeatedly described each other as best friends, but never actually worked with each other, which makes sense as what they did was so different. As far as I can see, there are only a few instances of them being recorded together.

One is when Daniel Kitson featured, playing the role of God (a little on the nose, arguably), in the Zaltzman and Oliver sketch at their reunion gig in Edinburgh 2011:

Then there's this shit from Daniel Kitson's radio show Trifle, in August 2020:

That clip absolutely killed me when I first heard it. It came from right near the end of the run, so Kitson was already very much in my head. I'd read the spoilers before I'd even started listening to that radio show, so I knew it would turn out to not be real, and still, as I got to the end, I got more and more confused and tried to find answers to more and more questions. "Wait... what the fuck did you... were you ever anywhere? Were you even outside that other time? Was that bird sound real or was that a special effect? Was every moment of it scripted? Have you ever even owned a camper van? Is Tim Key a real person?"

So I'm already totally drawn into that mystery, at the same time Daniel Kitson is hitting some emotional resonance buttons pretty fucking hard, maybe not quite as hard as dramatic sporting moments set to dramatic music, but pretty close. You know, some stuff about things lost during the pandemic, and then things lost during your whole life, things that used to matter to you and are gone now, things you lose track of and are never quite the same even if they come back, and then he hits you with that John Oliver clip, which I believe had me actually saying "Go fuck yourself, Kitson," to my phone. By which I meant absolutely nobody should be allowed to hit you this hard with a supposedly unscripted radio show about nothing. "The thing you miss is the future you once had." Fuck you.

And that bit was scripted, meaning he specifically wrote a script where all his friends call him to say they’re worried about him and want  him to come home and stop being stupid, except John Oliver, who calls to say he fully supports his harebrained scheme and thinks he should keep having this spontaneous adventure. And it’s not like Kitson regularly brings in John Oliver on things like this, he specifically brought in John Oliver on that one thing where he needed one character to be the voice of “Just go have an adventure, don’t worry about responsibilities and consequences”. And then you think about how much of Daniel Kitson’s early material was about love for adventure and spontaneously doing things in the middle of the night, and how much of his later comedy is about being sad that life loses adventure as you get old and your friends move away and have families.

Anyway. Anyway. I did not mean for this post to get quite so dramatic. Can I bring the tone to one a bit more lighthearted? Because here's a rare video of Kitson and Oliver together, it hardly counts because you don't even see them, but you can just barely tell they're both there:

Dunking Eugene Mirman in a dunk tank outside a gig at the Eugene Mirman Comedy Festival in 2010. The video only shows Mirman falling, but you can hear Kitson's distinctive giggle, and you can hear John Oliver mutter something like "Ooh, that one was...". And if you don't believe me that they were both just on the other side of that camera, here's a picture taken by a camera that was facing them while they threw:

Here's a YouTube video where you can see them both. From the Honourable Men of Art show at the 2006 Edinburgh Fringe Festival. John Oliver was supposed to be part of that show in person, but about six weeks before the festival started, he informed his friends that he was moving to America to work on The Daily Show, instead of, in the words of Andy Zaltzman, “Coming to Edinburgh to talk to twenty-five people a day in a darkened room.” So they got him on a live video linkup some nights, and here are 22 lovely seconds of it.

And finally, here is, to the very best of my knowledge, the only other instance of Daniel Kitson and John Oliver doing anything together that got recorded and put out there for the public to find:

I told you it would come back to that. It always comes back that. And it turns out that Daniel Kitson did tell us, going into that festival, that he was ready for anything. He wasn't kidding.

[misiwrites]

Mayblade Day 4

[previous: chapter 1 & 2 | chapter 3]

CHAPTER 4 prompt: sci-fi characters: hiromi, emily, ayaka, kyouju, max, mao pairings: ---

Just to please Emily, Hiromi had agreed to go check out the tennis club. She made no promises of joining, but they headed out to the courts together nevertheless. For being a relatively small school, Bey High had a surprisingly extensive sports park, and the club catalogue boasted everything from cycling to swimming and indoor surfing, somehow.

In the course of one afternoon of following her friend around, Hiromi had been introduced to Emily’s acquaintances in the baseball, basketball, and football clubs, all of whom felt it necessary to give her a robust sales pitch about their respective sports and club activities (each of which was the best, according to them). She’d done a bit of basketball in middle school but certainly didn’t have the confidence to jump in to play with the likes of Eddy and Rick – there was no separate team for girls, as there were none in their club – so she let them all politely know she wasn’t interested.

“How do you know all those guys, anyway?” she asked once she and Emily were back at the tennis courts. “I didn’t know you’re the type to hang out with… well… jocks like that.”

“We’re all in the enhancement program. We usually hang out when the tests are being taken.”

“Oh, that weird science stuff?”

Emily shot her a dangerous look. “It’s not weird! It’s very good. We get a lot of useful information out of it. The program has already helped me improve my training habits.”

Hiromi vividly remembered Emily herself calling it weird, back when the physics professor had pitched the state-funded, science-based enhancement program in the beginning of the semester. The name alone was fishy as hell.

“Are you sure you’re not on track to steroids or something?” she asked.

“Oh please, we’re not doing drugs or anything,” Emily huffed. “It’s about collecting performance data. I would trust Mrs. Judy with my life – she’s a remarkable scientist.”

Emily rarely praised the teaching staff, so this was borderline alarming behavior from her. Hiromi side-eyed the ginger but said nothing more.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. With the void in her daily life left by the astrology club, Hiromi ended up taking Ayaka’s offer to go check out the engineering club.

Having witnessed the sports club facilities and now this, she had to admit that Emily had been on to something with her hints about their lack of proper clubbing spaces. The engineering club operated in the electronics laboratory and had full access to all its resources, resulting in the room looking like the research floor of some hi-tech facility. Hiromi hadn’t had any idea the other clubs had such lavish surroundings.

The members present were working in pairs by the lab tables. One pair, Hiromi recognized as friends of Salima and Kane, a couple of boys from 1-B whose names she’d never bothered to catch. The other pair, in the very back of the room, also had familiar voices that she couldn’t quite place as she walked closer, following in Ayaka’s footsteps.

“And these two are the real sci-fi boys,” Ayaka presented. “I don’t know what they think they’re making, but it sure is something.”

So it seemed; the lab table was littered with equipment and evidently 3D printed mockups that Hiromi couldn’t even begin to describe, as well as three computer screens flashing with graphs, code editors, and something that had to do with the measurement equipment plugged in with half a dozen cables crisscrossing across the table. They really were actually creating something, not just sitting around reading books like she’d been doing all semester.

The boys – who even wore lab coats, for immersion, she assumed – were roused out of focus by Ayaka’s announcement and wheeled around in their chairs to look at their interrupters. It was only then, Hiromi realized, that she’d seen these people around because they were Takao’s friends; the shorter one who now lifted his enormous, round glasses to his forehead, Saien Manabu who didn’t live too many blocks away from her house; and the other, a blond boy with a thoroughly goofy face and a pale nose covered in freckles, turned to study Hiromi with curiosity.

“Hey there,” the blond gave a cheery greeting. “Another friend of Aya?”

Hiromi, troubled as to how exactly answer this, was saved by Ayaka: “Tachibana came to take a look at our club. Now’s your chance to give the pitch of your life and get someone uninterested to join, Max.”

“Well, I’m not going to force anyone, if she really isn’t interested. I’m Max and that’s Professor.” He nodded at the shorter boy.

“You are in Takao’s class, are you not?” Manabu – or, apparently, Professor – immediately surveyed.

“Um, yes I am. So what are you working on? Looks complex.” She was eager to not let the conversation steer towards him.

“Oh, just a little something… It is for an innovation contest so we cannot reveal too much.”

“Don’t want anybody stealing our secrets,” Max added with a finger over his goofy mouth.

All the parts were out in the open here, though. Not that they made much sense to Hiromi like this, scattered across the table; there were several octagon-shaped pieces with a hole in the middle, as if frames to something. Judging by the breadboard and electronics measurement equipment, they were working on something powered by electricity.

“Are you looking for a club to join?” Professor then inquired. For such a tiny guy, he had an awfully mature and formal appearance, sporting a shirt-and-tie attire under the oversized lab coat.

“Not really… or, kind of.” Was she? She could as well have been.

“If you like comics or games more than building things, I am the president of a couple of those. They are very laid-back clubs, you can come over to read or play something as you wish, if you join that is.”

“Thanks…” She did like some comics and games… but the idea of going to a clubroom to do one among strangers instead of in the safety of her own room, not so much.

Hiromi did give it a minute of serious consideration, however, until a shouting voice cut right through her train of thought and left her perplexed.

“Aaaaayyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!”

Something very pink had just emerged into the electronics lab. A girl with bright pink hair and baby pink clothes barreled herself in Ayaka’s direction, which also happened to be Hiromi’s general direction.

“You’re early,” Ayaka commented, her cool demeanor the opposite of this bubblegum pink burst of energy.

“Hi, Mao,” Max greeted the new girl, though with more politeness than cheer, Hiromi noted. Professor had slipped his glasses back on and was back to work already in silence.

“Hi, mayo boy. Eh, I’m like, ten minutes early – so what? I can see you’re not doing anything, anyway.”

“I was showing our club to Tachibana.” Ayaka gestured at Hiromi, and she was quickly beginning to feel like a test subject presented to each human in turns. “She’s looking for one to join.”

“Please, just call me Hiromi,” she managed to rectify, finally.

Mao gave her a scrutinizing look from head to toe. Or, at least, it felt scrutinizing to Hiromi, who felt so very plain compared to this eccentric girl with a cat ear hairtie in her head. “I see! So, you thinking of joining the engineering club?”

“Erm… Probably not. I don’t think this is my thing…”

“Well, if you wanna try something completely different, I’m in the wushu club.” Mao must have noted the thinly veiled horror on Hiromi’s face, for she added: “Oh, don’t worry, there’re no requirements for joining – if you’re a total beginner, we’ll teach you the basics of whatever art interests you. It’s fun! And you’ll learn it fast, I promise. Anyway, Aya, I’m starving! Let’s get going already!”

With that, the pink whirlwind grabbed the short-haired girl, and then they were both gone.